


To Deal with a Devil

by NamelesslyNightlock



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, BAMF Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Banter, Battle Couple, Battlefield, Bickering, Blood, Bonding, Canon-Typical Violence, Crusades, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cultural Differences, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluffy Ending, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Happy Ending, Historical References, Holding Hands, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Language Barrier, Languages, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Mutual Pining, Nicky | Nicolo di Genova Lies, Origin Story, Pining, Pre-Canon, Protective Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Religious Conflict, Sarcasm, Swordfighting, Swords, Teamwork, Temporary Character Death, Trust Issues, Worried Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:20:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 35,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25787968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NamelesslyNightlock/pseuds/NamelesslyNightlock
Summary: By the time Nicolò heard the stirrings of a second crusade, he’d already made up his mind.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 320
Kudos: 836





	1. like wolves

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this with the intention that it would be something small, to help me get back to writing after a wrist injury, but it, uh, won't stop growing. So I've put what I have so far into chapters, but I don't know how long it'll end up.  
>   
> Thanks **Salamanderink** for talking about French medieval history with me for way too long ~~though of course there's no such thing~~ and also **Rabentochter** for helping with tags and being generally amazing.

When Nicolò began to hear the stirrings of a second crusade, he realised that he’d already made up his mind.

It was almost frustrating, the ease of that sudden understanding. He’d only spent the better part of five decades ruminating over every second he’d lived under the blinding desert sun, every _moment_ he’d spent staring into dark brown eyes that had always gleamed with rage. Always, until… they hadn’t.

It was that last death that Nicolò played over in his mind far more than any of the others, that look of wide-eyed panic that watched as he was impaled upon a spear from an unknown hand.

He’d woken, of course he had, drenched in blood and groaning as his flesh knit back together. It was faster every time – at least, he thought it was – and it couldn’t have taken more than a few minutes before his eyes were blinking open to the blinding light of the desert sun.

Yet when he turned to the side, fingers already curling around the sticky hilt of his sword as he readied to continue the never-ending struggle, it was to find that there was no fight to be had.

Al-Kaysani – the name that he had only learned as it fell from the mouth of a young boy rushing to the Saracen’s aid, the name that had haunted Nicolò ever since – was sitting on the ground, legs crossed as he turned his own sword over in his hands.

The sword was unlike the one that Nicolò carried. While Nicolò’s was straight, Al-Kaysani’s looked jagged and brutal. A tribute, Nicolò had once thought, to the brutality of the Saracen people themselves.

Once, but… no longer.

Unsure, Nicolò had sat to mirror Al-Kaysani’s position. As he did so, he noticed something that caused him to stare.

There were many bodies around them of course, there always had been, the number only increasing as the siege continued—but there was one in particular that caught Nicolò’s gaze. Caught it, perhaps, because Al-Kaysani was staring at the very same thing.

The boy could not have yet reached 20. His face was almost clean-shaven, just a few wisps of dark hair showing where his scarf had slipped from his dark-skinned face, likely during the act of being beheaded.

There was no question as to who had killed the boy. Nicolò recognised the face as the one who had killed _him,_ had launched a spear through Nicolò’s heart before Nicolò’s sword sliced Al-Kaysani’s throat for the—fifth? Or sixth time.

Blood still seeped from the boy’s severed neck, the same blood that mixed with Nicolò’s along the fiercely curved blade of Al-Kaysani’s sword.

And as his gaze drew back to Al-Kaysani’s sombre face, there was only one word that Nicolò could force past his lips.

“ _Why?”_

Al-Kaysani jumped at the sound, his eyes going wide for a moment before he schooled his expression. Nicolò realised that the Saracen likely had no idea what had been said—only that he had said _something._

It wasn’t the first time they had spoken to each other. Both had shouted and screamed and cursed when they’d realised that they couldn’t die, but in the heat of the battle it hadn’t mattered that they couldn’t comprehend exact words. But this… this felt different.

Al-Kaysani said something, and even if it had been a language he could understand, Nicolò didn’t think he would have heard the words. Shaking his head a little in an attempt to clear it from the haze that still lingered after death, Nicolò tried something else, and asked again in Latin.

The Saracen frowned, still confused. But when he spoke—

“I am tired of this.”

It was Nicolò’s turn to stare in surprise as he finally understood the words—spoken in Occitan, a language he didn’t know well but of which he had been able to pick up a few words from his fellow crusaders.

But what he was tired of, Nicolò would not come to know—for the man stood, and with one last, sweeping glance over the young body on the ground, Al-Kaysani turned and walked away.

Nicolò hadn’t expected that he would come to regret not following. And yet, almost fifty years later, there he was. Picking up his sword and leaving his country behind—the country that, in all honesty, had stopped feeling like _his_ since his younger sister had passed of old age. Or perhaps… perhaps even before that.

Perhaps Nicolò should have realised he was lying to himself the moment he began to learn a language the rest of his community and church considered barbaric. He should have realised then that he’d made his decision.

He had just been too scared to admit it.

Scared of his own mind, his own body—of the unknown.

He still _was,_ but he couldn’t rationalise allowing the fear to control him. Not when there appeared to be nothing on God’s earth capable of permanently hurting him.

Nothing, except perhaps loneliness and the haunting memory of eyes filled with sombre exhaustion.

And so it was that after decades of teetering along the edge of a knife, dreaming of a face that had been his death more times than he could count, Nicolò found himself on a ship across the Mediterranean even before King Louis VII announced his intention to join the crusade.

It didn’t matter that Nicolò didn’t know where to look, save for sailing across the sea. Al-Kaysani had said he was tired—and whether he meant of the fighting, or of the dying, or of _Nicolò_ there was no way to know, but there was one thing of which Nicolò was sure.

Al-Kaysani wouldn’t be at the scene of the crusade. Which meant Nicolò would need to find him himself.

And yes, he was aware that finding a single person in such a large world could take years. Decades. _Centuries,_ insofar as he could imagine a time that distantly into the future. But if Nicolò had one thing, it was _time_ , and he had decided how he was going to spend it.

It didn’t matter if it took until the world was dust under his feet—Nicolò needed purpose, and this was the only purpose he could think to find.

After returning from the Holy Land all those years before, Nicolò had thrown himself back into his church, trying to rekindle the faith that had been torn asunder by sights of blood and ash, by the screams of women and children still echoing through his nightmares as sharply as they had the red-run streets of Jerusalem. He had searched through the holy scriptures for a clue, scouring the pages of the Bible for any reference to people being brought back to life.

Well, aside from the obvious, of course. He couldn’t believe that he had died for anyone’s sins bar his own—and it seemed that his punishment was eternity in the lands of men, never to be granted entry into Heaven.

And eternity was a long, _long_ time to spend alone.

As his friends withered and his family died, Nicolò couldn’t help thinking that there was only one person in the world who was like him, only one person who could not only understand—but be able to stay. And as Nicolò was forced to move cities and regions to avoid accusations of making deals with the devil, the dreams of Al-Kaysani became his one constant.

Oh, there were other dreams of course, dreams of battle-hardened women which didn’t make any sense. But those were flashes compared to the dreams of Al-Kaysani, and somehow, without realising it, Nicolò began to look forward to putting his head down to rest so that he could see those dark eyes again.

And in that, he believed he had his answer.

—~—

Nicolò started his search in Jerusalem.

It was half a century since he had last been there, but it was the last place he had seen Al-Kaysani. The place was changed—no longer what it once was, and yet neither what Nicolò had expected.

Walking through those streets didn’t feel real. And Nicolò didn’t find what he was looking for.

He tried Acre, Damascus, Tripoli—all the way north to Antioch, where the memories fell upon him like wolves once more. Yet no matter how weary he felt, he forged his way forward, still asking in improving Arabic after a man he felt he knew.

“Al-Kaysani? Do you know a man named Al-Kaysani?”

It was months, _years_ of asking the same question _,_ and Nicolò grew so accustomed to hearing the same answer that when he received something different, he almost did not recognise it until the man he had bumped into along the banks of the Orontes River was half way through his sentence.

The man spoke rapidly, both due to native mastery of the language as well as being in an apparent rush, irritation over being held back to talk to a Frank clear—but Nicolò understood the gist.

_Al-Kaysani, trader._

Nicolò tried for more information, but all he could understand was that the merchant family hadn’t been heard from in some years—and that they originated somewhere south and west.

He had been going in the wrong direction.

Still, he could not allow that to get to him—he would take the small victory, as now he _finally_ had a proper place to start. He would check in at the ports in the south, in the west, all along the Mediterranean if he had to. Al-Kaysani was from a merchant family, which meant that Nicolò _would_ be able to find him.

So he made his way back south, faster this time, stopping only in towns along the coast and speaking only to merchants. A few more recognised the name, gave him a more focused location.

_Ifriqiya._

A long way to travel for sure, but the further south Nicolò went, the lighter he felt, as if God were carrying his feet with a blessed swiftness, as if the path he followed was finally _right._ Nicolò’s belief in this only strengthened when one night just south of Tripoli, he was gifted a dream unlike the others.

For this time, when he saw Al-Kaysani’s face… Nicolò recognised his surroundings.

He woke with a broken laugh.

Jerusalem. Al-Kaysani was back in _Jerusalem_.

The irony didn’t cut as deep as the certainty bolstered his spirit, and Nicolò began to move through the lands far faster than before, no longer needing to stop and _ask._ He knew where he was going, he knew where Al-Kaysani was—and even though he couldn’t describe entirely _why_ it was so, the thought felt more uplifting than anything else he had experienced since the last time a sword had pierced his skin.

Unfortunately, however, it would seem that through a terrible twist of irony, time was not on Nicolò’s side. For as he travelled back through the Holy Land, he stumbled upon crusaders just outside of Damascus.

And stumbled truly was the correct term. The crusaders did not appear to be as organised as they had been in the past, though perhaps that was only due to Nicolò’s increased experience. The pair he ran into were just wandering along the road on the outskirts of the camp, sharing a skein of wine between them—and when they saw Nicolò, the one on the left took three attempts to pull his sword from its scabbard. Then he spoke a guttural language that Nicolò didn’t understand.

Nicolò had to hold in a sigh. It was hardly the first time he had encountered unsavoury types on the road – the fact that he was labelling men he would have once considered comrades as such was not lost on him – and he knew that if needed, he would be able to fight his way out of the conflict.

But he also, unfortunately, recognised that if the crusaders were already here, then his pale face would no longer be welcomed kindly by the people living in the Holy Land. He was already greeted with suspicion in towns, suspicion that was only somewhat soothed when he spoke to the Turks in their own language—but with attacks on the horizon, it would only grow so much worse.

Nicolò had no choice. He could wait for everything to pass, or…

He could attempt to join with the crusaders, and follow them through to Jerusalem.

Neither option was particularly pleasant. He still believed that Al-Kaysani was likely to want to avoid the crusade just as much as Nicolò did himself, but he wouldn’t get far through the Holy Land alone.

And when the men raised their swords and gave him an ultimatum of their own making, Nicolò was simply too _tired._

“I’ll go with you,” he said, speaking in his native tongue first—and when they frowned, he switched to the Latin he had learned as a priest. “I’ll go with you.”

Only one of them understood, and nodded sharply to the other before reaching for Nicolò’s sword. It appeared they weren’t as drunk as Nicolò had originally hoped.

They brought Nicolò to one of the larger tents, though it was clearly not the most decadent. The man inside was a knight, a commander, but not a king—and he eyed Nicolò with the kind of annoyance that was almost relatable.

“Who is this?”

The man spoke French—not the Occitan that Nicolò was better versed in, but the langue d'oïl spoken further north than the Mediterranean. Nicolò was starting to get a headache, along with a growing appreciation for the prevalence of Arabic in the Holy Land. A common language made things so much easier.

“A traveller,” one of the men replied in kind. “Didn’t want him to give away our location to the heathens.”

The commander looked about to explode. Nicolò couldn’t really blame him. “If we arrested every single traveller on the road, we would not have the food to feed them.”

“Am I a prisoner?” Nicolò asked carefully, wanting to speak before one of the men suggested making it so he wouldn’t _need_ any food.

“Are you a threat?” the commander replied. And, well, that was rather an open question, wasn’t it? Nicolò could be a threat if he wanted to be. If they gave him reason to be.

“No,” Nicolò replied simply. “I am… on something of a pilgrimage.”

The commander sized him up, then cast his gaze to the sword that one of the men still held in his hands. “A pilgrimage? And you know that fighting in God’s name against the heathens is the most holy of all causes? That it will absolve you of all sins?”

Nicolò was already regretting his decision to enter the crusader camp. He’d thought it was the best option, but now he was facing a repetition of his past, he felt a little sick to the stomach. But as much as he wished to decline the offer, he did not think that alerting these men to the fact that he was not exactly on a pilgrimage to find _God_ was a good idea. 

So he grit his teeth, and took the only option he seemed to have.

“I would be honoured to join you.”

The commander’s smile had too many teeth, yet seemed tight at the same time. “Good. You there, return this man’s sword. We march at dawn. Damascus will be ours on the morrow.”

Nicolò forced a smile which fell away the moment he ducked out of the tent. The two men who had brought him in followed, and Nicolò tried not to snatch his sword as it was handed back to him.

“You don’t seem like you belong here,” he said as he slid the weapon back into its scabbard. His French wasn’t nearly as good as his Arabic had become, but the men seemed to understand what he meant. Actually, while he didn’t know enough to be able to tell for sure, he was willing to bet these men spoke the language just as badly.

“Our King is not far,” one shrugged. “We were separated, but we shall all be together for the battle tomorrow.”

The other's smile turned a little sly. “The froschfresser might think the city will be his, but it won't.”

“Sieges can take a long time,” Nicolò said, replying to the first.

“Not this one. Everyone is saying it will be over in a week at the longest. And when it is, the Fleur-de-lis won't be what's flying from the walls.”

Nicolò didn’t say anything else. He didn’t think there would be much point.

They left him in a sea of tents to find his own way, walking away with the skein once more passing between them as if nothing had happened, their words cutting through the air in hard syllables that made Nicolò long for the soft sounds of his own tongue. French wasn’t too dissimilar in tenor, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t his.

Shaking the thoughts away, Nicolò moved to find a place. Less organised as the last crusade or not, a war camp is a war camp, and it did not take Nicolò long to locate a fire surrounded by weary soldiers who barely looked up as he slid in among them.

This… this was familiar. The tired faces lined with fear, hidden below a layer of bravado in the hopes that no one would notice. Toasts to a victory they were sure was in their grasp, a victory they knew many would not see. They didn’t yet bear the pure, back-breaking exhaustion of a months’ long siege, but nor were they ignorant of what was to come.

It _was_ familiar. But after years of walking through the desert, walking among the so-called barbarians, it no longer felt like it was a place Nicolò belonged.

He sat quietly, took food when it was offered but declined any drink that was not water. He considered finding a place to sleep, considered sneaking away – after all, he had nothing to fear of a desertion charge – but he’d barely thought of the notion when the sound of a scream cut through the usual din of the camp.

Nicolò jumped up immediately—but those around him hardly flinched.

“What was that?” he asked instinctively—and when he received only blank looks, he tried not to groan in annoyance as he repeated his question in clumsy French.

“It’ll just be the heathen again,” one of them replied. “Probably won’t talk.”

“I would have by now,” another muttered. The first turned to him angrily, and he held up his hands. “If I was a heathen, questioned by good Christians. I wouldn’t give up information to _them_.”

The pair continued to squabble, but it held no interest for Nicolò. He turned to another man, unsure of why he was curious but finding that he needed to know. Perhaps it was the boredom of sitting still all night.

“Why are they questioning him? Do they believe he has information on the city walls?” Nicolò asked. “Last time we didn’t really—well. I would have thought you’d just kill him?”

“They did,” the man replied. He glanced about, then leaned a little closer. His breath stank of wine. “I heard they _tried_ to kill him when they caught him sneaking around the camp, but…” He crossed himself with a shudder as he finished, “The heathen came back to life. Mark of the devil, if you ask me.”

Nicolò barely heard the last few words—he was up before they had left the man’s mouth, hurrying toward the sound of the screams.

They stopped before Nicolò made it all the way, but he spied the commander from before heading toward a tent that was slightly separated from the others around it, as if no one else wanted to be too close.

The commander – Thierry d'Alsace, Nicolò had learned from listening to the others – frowned as Nicolò approached.

“You again,” he huffed. “Find a corner, sleep. You’ll need it.”

Thierry went to step past him, but Nicolò stepped in front of him—a bold move, but a risk he felt he needed to take.

“I heard you were questioning a heathen,” Nicolò said. “I speak Arabic, and I thought to offer my assistance.”

Thierry considered him for a moment, and Nicolò was sure he was about to be sent away for impropriety. But then, Thierry nodded.

“He has yet to speak a word,” Thierry said. “My officers know very little of their tongue.”

“I have travelled some these past years,” Nicolò said, knowing he was stepping further into dangerous waters. “I speak it well.”

Thierry considered for another moment longer—then nodded. “Say exactly what I say, and always report the truth. I will know if you do otherwise.”

Nicolò didn’t see how, but agreed nonetheless.

“And what is your name, soldier?” Thierry asked.

“Nicolò di Genova.”

Thierry nodded, and then pushed aside the flap entrance of the tent and stepped inside.

When Nicolò followed, the first thing that struck him was the _smell._ It was iron and decay, rot and _death,_ and it clung in his nose and cut through his mind with the memory of a battlefield and a sword through his heart. He did his best not to gag, but was not sure that he succeeded—

But then a gasp drew his attention, and Nicolò _stared._

Almost fifty years of agonising over a decision. Two years scouring the Holy Land, searching for one man in millions.

And Al-Kaysani was just… _there._ Right in front of him.

He was on the ground, tied to the pole in the centre of the tent, hands behind his back. The man’s hair was different, a little longer perhaps—but still just as matted in blood as the last time Nicolò had seen him. His clothes were tattered and bloody, but either way Nicolò could still see that they were not clothes intended for a battle. Not armour. They were not too dissimilar from what Nicolò was wearing himself.

When their gazes met, Nicolò let out a breath of his own. He had imagined this moment – well, not exactly in this way, but he had imagined seeing Al-Kaysani again – so many times, but he had not truly prepared himself for the maelstrom it would awaken in him. There was still some anger there, of course, the twinge of remembered pain, but it was not as prevalent as he would have expected.

Somehow, the thing that was flooding through him was… _relief._

He was torn from his thoughts by a mostly unwelcome voice.

“They always are a shock to see,” Thierry said in French, though his expression was not as hateful as Nicolò would have expected. “Ask him why he was in our camp.”

That was not the question Nicolò would have expected the commander to want answered, to be honest, but he turned to do so nonetheless, clearing his throat before speaking in Arabic.

“He wishes to know why you are here.” Nicolò’s words were slow, careful—and not just to ensure that they were understood, but because he could tell from his expression that Al-Kaysani recognised him, and he was unsure as to what the other man was thinking.

His response provided little illumination. “You’ve learned Arabic.”

Thierry shifted. Nicolò wondered if it truly was the first time Al-Kaysani had said anything since being caught.

 _Well,_ Nicolò reminded himself, a bitter taste curling over his tongue. _Anything other than screaming._

“I thought it best,” Nicolò replied. “We didn’t understand each other last time.”

“You did when I spoke Occitan.” Al-Kaysani tilted his head a little, as if its position against the pole was uncomfortable. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that _you_ have come to question me.”

Nicolò went to reply, but was cut off by the sound of French.

“What is he saying?”

“He isn’t answering the question,” Nicolò replied. He was expecting an angry response.

He didn’t get one.

“Petrus,” Thierry said.

Nicolò was confused for a moment—but then someone he hadn’t yet noticed moved from beside a table that had been pushed up against the side of the tent, and that confusion melted away.

The man was thin, and older than you would expect to find in a crusader camp. But Petrus held the knife in his hand like he was comfortable using it, and as he moved forward, Al-Kaysani flinched.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” Nicolò said quickly. “Allow me to try again.” He turned to Al-Kaysani, and switched back to Arabic. “You have to give me something to say, or they will keep hurting you.”

“Why do you care?” Al-Kaysani replied—though he asked the question as if he already had an answer in his mind. “The last time we met—”

“Was a long time ago,” Nicolò interrupted. “I’ve—”

“Been looking for me?” Al-Kaysani grinned when Nicolò flinched, but it was a tight thing, with no warmth to it. “Does that make it my turn to ask you _why?”_

Nicolò had to grit his teeth to stop himself from childishly reminding the other man that he had been the one to ask first. “ _Why_ were you sneaking through this camp? You must have known it was a bad idea.”

Al-Kaysani was quiet for a moment—and for that moment, Nicolò didn’t think he would receive an answer. Until—

“I was looking for you.”

No.

Nicolò frowned.

That was impossible, that—didn’t make any sense—

“I don’t believe you.”

“You were looking for me, I know it. Why is it so hard to believe I was doing the same?”

Nicolò shook his head. “I only got here a few hours ago, you look like you’ve been here for—”

“Since yesterday.” Al-Kaysani frowned. “I think.”

“ _Genova,”_ Thierry snapped, and Nicolò knew he was running out of time.

“Just give me something else I can use,” he said, almost pleading though he wasn’t sure why. “It’s your head.”

Al-Kaysani got an interesting look in his eye as he replied. “It’ll grow back.”

“But it’ll still hurt.”

Al-Kaysani pressed his lips together at that. “All right, _Genova._ But I do not know what you could say that would make this better. Looking for information is worse than looking for a person, and regardless. We both know that isn’t the question he actually wants you to ask.”

Nicolò sighed. “And I don’t suppose you have managed to discover the answer since we last met?”

Al-Kaysani shook his head, and Nicolò felt the loss of a hope he hadn’t truly realised he’d been carrying. “Have you?”

“No.” Nicolò held the other man’s gaze for a moment longer, then turned back to the French commander. “I don’t believe he knows anything of Damascus,” he said. “I think he’s a traveller, as I was.”

Thierry eyed him. That expression was beginning to irk Nicolò a little, but he tried to remind himself that he could not be harmed. Not permanently, anyway.

“Very well,” Thierry eventually said. “Petrus. Take a break. I shall return in a few hours.”

Nicolò felt his breath leave him in a sigh, and allowed himself one last look at the man he had crossed a sea and several deserts to find.

For several long seconds, Al-Kaysani just stared back.

“Genova!”

Nicolò turned and scurried from the tent without another glance—

But he was hardly a step outside when hands grabbed his shoulders and pushed him down to his knees—and then the unmistakable bite of cold steel pressed hard against his neck.


	2. cover of darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings at the end.

Nicolò was more than used to the feel of a blade against his skin. He’d died so many times that he’d long since lost count, and been injured so many times more. He’d even slid a blade over his own skin often enough, just to watch the blood pool and the wound close with his own eyes, something many might call a miracle but which he could only see as a curse.

Yet, despite his unnaturally extensive experience, the press of that sharp edge against his jugular was still enough to make his heart jolt and his chest go cold.

Because this time… his life, his _pain_ wasn’t the only thing to be worried about.

The French commander’s expression was nothing like what it had been inside the tent—no longer cold and calculating, his eyes were burning with an unbridled anger as he stared down at Nicolò, sword-arm perfectly straight as he held the tip of his weapon beneath Nicolò’s chin.

“How do you know that man?” Thierry hissed, the words sharp enough that spittle gathered along his lips. “You _lied_ to me.”

“I did not,” Nicolò replied, keeping his tone light despite utilising a defiant stare. “Not once.”

Thierry pressed his sword a little harder into Nicolò’s throat, and the guard’s hands on Nicolò’s shoulders gripped him tighter. Knowing that a healed wound would make his connection to Al-Kaysani even harder to deny, Nicolò decided to give in.

“You asked me to join your army without knowing who I was,” Nicolò replied. “I _am_ Christian, but I have been travelling the Holy Land since before you arrived here. Of course I talked to people along the way.”

“I doubt that,” Thierry replied. And when he spoke next, Nicolò’s eyes widened at the sound of Arabic. “After the death of my wife, I lived in Jerusalem for a time. I did tell you, Nicolò di Genova, that I would know what was said.”

“Then why allow me inside there at all? You did not need me—”

“I thought it prudent to have the heathen believe I did not know his language. It would seem that I was correct.”

If Nicolò were a more vulgar man, he might have taken the Lord’s name in vain. As it were, he just barely managed to keep his expression clear. He knew he was in a pile of shit, and he should have guessed that a commander would know some Arabic.

“I do not know him well,” Nicolò tried, already recognising that it was a useless attempt. “He and I met some time ago, in Jerusalem, actually. But not for long.”

Thierry had that dark look in his eye again. “You will be confined,” he said. “And you will not be fighting with us tomorrow.”

Well. Perhaps _one_ good thing could come out of all of this. At least, that was what Nicolò told himself as he was manhandled to the other side of the camp.

He’d never much liked being pushed around. It was something that had always been true, but he could say now that it had developed into a genuine hatred, and his eyes held a nasty glare as the guards shoved him into a tent. Nicolò would like to think he was intimidating enough that his glare was the reason why they didn’t take his sword, but he thought a second option more likely—that despite Thierry’s suspicions, he still didn’t see Nicolò as a threat.

That was okay, though. Had this been fifty years prior, Theirry would have been right—Nicolò had not always been a particularly skilled swordsman, and he still didn’t exactly look the part. He’d always been better with a bow, but his father hadn’t wanted him to suffer the disrepute of being an archer. Only the years of practice had allowed him to become as good as he was with a blade, and honestly? Being underestimated was something of an advantage. It would be easier to—

The muffled sound of French outside the door had Nicolò’s thoughts grinding to a halt. Thierry had posted guards. That was… less good. 

Nicolò grit his teeth, and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to force down the anxiety that was clawing up his throat.

He had come so close to his goal, there were now mere hundreds of yards instead of thousands of miles between them—and yet he felt further away than he ever had before. Al-Kaysani was within his reach but locked away, bound and guarded and _tortured—_

Nicolò balled his hands into fists, and thrust them down toward the ground. What was he doing? He had fought in the Siege of Jerusalem, he was older than anyone else he’d ever met. He had more experience than any of these men, _including_ Thierry D'Alsace, _Comte de Flandres_.

If anyone could get Al-Kaysani out of this mess—it was _him_.

He drew his sword slowly, and stepped toward the exit on light feet. Yet despite his resolve, he still balked as he peeked out of the flap to get a glance at the two men standing guard. It wasn’t that he was squeamish—he’d had to kill on the road to defend himself more than once, but that was—

These were _Christians,_ and they had done him no personal wrong. This was—

Different? Was it? Was killing a Christian any different from killing someone like Al-Kaysani? Or someone like the young boy in Jerusalem who couldn’t have been out of his teens? The one—

The one Al-Kaysani had killed… because the boy had killed Nicolò?

It was something Nicolò couldn’t know for sure, not without asking Al-Kaysani himself. And that couldn’t happen if they didn’t _both_ get out of here.

Nicolò closed his eyes, and forced himself to take a deep breath.

These men may be Christian but they were about to do terrible things come morning. And if Nicolò didn’t get past them, then _worse_ things would happen to Al-Kaysani—and likely to Nicolò himself, as well.

He wouldn’t like to say that it was easier, after that, but… with a purpose in mind, his blade cut through the throats of the men outside his tent before they even knew he was there.

It was easier than it probably should have been, to walk through the camp. He had gone quietly when asked so none had seen a struggle, and he looked no different to the other men in the camp. No one even knew he was an enemy to realise that they should pay him any mind. However, there were more soldiers standing outside Al-Kaysani’s tent than what had been guarding his own, and as they were facing out from the door, there would be no way of getting past them quietly.

So, instead, Nicolò slipped around the back.

His sword cut through the material of the tent easily, and Nicolò stepped through the tear without problem.

The man on the floor had not moved since earlier that day, still tied to the pole. Nicolò couldn’t help a brief flush of relief when he noted that there did not appear to be any new blood across Al-Kaysani's blue clothes.

He tensed as Nicolò stepped closer—but dark eyes widened when Nicolò moved into his line of sight.

“Genova?”

“Al-Kaysani.” Nicolò crouched down in front of the man, placing his sword on the ground. “Tell me the truth. What are you doing here?”

“I told you the truth before. You still don’t believe it?”

“It doesn’t make sense.”

“Doesn’t it?”

Nicolò shook his head, and was about to reply when he realised that… Al-Kaysani had spoken not in Arabic, nor Occitan—but in _Genoese._ His eyes widened. He knew that Al-Kaysani was a merchant, but he hadn’t recognised Genoese when they’d met before.

Maybe… perhaps…

Al-Kaysani used Nicolò’s surprised silence to speak again. “Listen. I said before I know that you have been looking for me, I dreamed of you doing it. But your people, they—”

“They are not my people,” Nicolò interrupted, finding his voice again amongst a need to refute that inaccuracy. “These are French, and—from some other place I don’t know, I don’t recognise their language—”

“Germany.”

Nicolò was curious, but he didn’t waste time in asking how Al-Kaysani knew more about it than he. “I was not part of this. I was heading to Jerusalem, trying to find you.”

Al-Kaysani watched him for a moment longer. “They are Christians.”

“That does not make them _mine,”_ Nicolò shot back—and it was only as he said it that he realised it was true. He still considered himself a follower of God, he still _believed,_ he still had faith. But the way in which men had interpreted His will and decided to act in His name? No, Nicolò no longer believed himself to be a part of _that._ He hadn’t for a while.

At that, Al-Kaysani gave a short nod. “Very well,” he said. “Then… _these_ people. They killed me. They know. All these toys…” the man trailed off to glance around the tent, and Nicolò felt a little sick as he was reminded of the assortment of instruments on the table. “They are not about to let me go. If you were truly looking for me, as I was looking for you—you must help me.”

Al-Kaysani still spoke Genoese, and despite feeling it was not polite to do so, Nicolò spoke back in the same language. If nothing else, it made the conversation safer. It felt odd, to realise that in this particular camp of crusaders, it was _Nicolò’s_ tongue that would be less likely understood.

But it, along with Al-Kaysani’s words, hammered home a singular point.

“We really need to get out of here,” Nicolò muttered. He glanced once back toward the entrance of the tent, and then he stood, sheathed his sword, and grasped the dagger at his belt.

Al-Kaysani watched him carefully, but he did not flinch when Nicolò drew his weapon—nor when Nicolò walked behind him. Perhaps he’d grown used to pain, or perhaps… it was something else.

There was a moment where Nicolò hesitated once again, unsure—because despite all the time Nicolò had spent searching for this man, he was painfully aware that what he had said to Thierry was the truth. He didn’t know Al-Kaysani, not really, and he didn’t know if the Saracen would turn around and plunge a knife into Nicolò’s chest, just as he had so many times before.

But, regardless of what might happen next, Nicolò knew he could not leave this man alone. Not here.

So he sliced through Al-Kaysani’s bindings, and then offered him a hand.

A familiar curved blade was lying on a bench along the side of the tent, accompanied by the bloodied instruments Nicolò tried not to look at for too long. Al-Kaysani took it into his hand, and then they moved out the same way that Nicolò had entered.

They did not speak as they hurried through the camp, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. Nicolò knew without a doubt that if they – well, if Al-Kaysani – was spotted, they would be killed—and he didn’t much like the idea of being tortured.

He should have known that things had been running far too smoothly for it to continue as such.

Nicolò didn’t realise the man was there until he’d already rounded the corner, and by the time his eyes widened a weapon was already arcing down toward his head, a yell of alarm echoing through the air. He could already see that he wasn’t going to be fast enough, that he was going to be killed _again—_ but before he could even bring up his sword a wickedly curved blade sliced across the crusader’s throat.

Nicolò’s breath caught. It was not the first time that Al-Kaysani had killed for him, but it was the first time Nicolò had witnessed it himself.

There was no time to ponder, though—

“Come,” Al-Kaysani ordered, gripping Nicolò’s elbow to pull him from his shock—and the pair of them _ran,_ making for the edge of the camp as quickly as they could. Nicolò could see a line of horses, but he knew they would be well guarded—

Not that they had any need to be quiet anymore. The whole camp was beginning to rouse.

“Prisoner escape!”

“Catch them, don’t let them get away—”

“Genova, _stop!”_

Nicolò ignored them all—until a crossbow bolt thumped through his shoulder, piercing his flesh with an agonising strike.

He gritted his teeth and groaned, but managed to stay upright—Al-Kaysani swore for the both of them, and grabbed the bolt—

“Wait—”

—and heedless of Nicolò’s shout, yanked it out, taking a good chunk of Nicolò’s shoulder with it.

“You’ll heal,” Al-Kaysani snapped, cutting across Nicolò’s complaint before it even fell from his tongue. “ _Come on.”_

“Maybe I should have just left you there,” Nicolò groaned—but he still followed.

The bolts kept coming, as did regular arrows and men with swords, but the pair kept running. Arrows didn’t cause enough damage to kill them right away, giving them the time to pull them out and heal. The bolts were more of a problem—but they were not as frequent, and became even less so when the swordsmen drew closer—

And then they were in a fight for their lives.

Despite knowing that they would survive this, Nicolò also knew they couldn’t afford to be killed, for then they would simply be captured once more—and certainly held more securely the second time. So Nicolò pushed his conscience far, _far_ to the side as he allowed his sword to lash out, thinking only of getting away free as it sliced through the air in a gleaming arc of crimson.

They were horribly outnumbered, but the crusaders were out _matched._ He and Al-Kaysani had never fought side by side before, but they had spent _lifetimes_ learning the way the other moved, every turn and trick. They twisted together like they had been a team for years, not predicting the other’s movements perfectly but managing well enough that they didn’t injure each other, their wrath dealt exclusively upon those who would see them bound.

As a sword lashed out at his legs Nicolò fell to one knee to block it—and didn’t need to worry about the flash of silver that arced towards his shoulder as he knew a curved blade would rise to meet it, the clash of metal ringing in Nicolò’s ears as he spun around to protect Al-Kaysani’s back in turn. There were curses in multiple languages flying around his ears, but when Nicolò glanced to the side, he found that Al-Kaysani was _grinning—_

And in that moment, Nicolò couldn’t help but smile back.

It wasn’t that he was enjoying the killing, wasn’t that cutting down crusaders gave him pleasure. It just… felt _right,_ to be fighting with this man, instead of against him. Like this, _this_ was where Nicolò was meant to be.

They made it to the horses, leaving a trail of blood in their wake. Nicolò took a bow and quiver from a bloodied corpse, as Al-Kaysani stood over him, then climbed atop a horse—and used the weapon to cover the Al-Kaysani as he did the same. Nicolò really had always been a good shot, and the bow allowed him to shoot faster than any of those with crossbows. Al-Kaysani gave a shout the moment he was on his horse—

And then they both _rode,_ pushing their steeds as hard as they could, leaning forward as yet more arrows slammed into their backs—

Nicolò’s horse went down, and he hit the ground hard. His leg was stuck under the injured animal and he gasped from the pain, sure that it must be broken—

“Genova!”

Two separate voices called his name—one wrathful, one desperate. Nicolò used adrenaline evoked by both to pull his leg free, crying out as the sharp pain sapped what felt like his last ounce of strength. Then he looked up to see Al-Kaysani riding back, hand outstretched—

Nicolò’s shoulder burned _,_ his leg _screamed—_

But Al-Kaysani pulled him up, and Nicolò held on to the man’s waist as tightly as he could while Al-Kaysani ran their horse hard, the sound of the French commander’s angry shouts and orders and curses ringing through the air.

Nicolò knew they weren’t going to get far. They were in a _desert_ after all, it wasn’t like they had a thick forest to hide in. But Nicolò had to—he had to _trust_ that Al-Kaysani would know what he was doing. He knew this place better than any European, after all.

Every jolt of the horse sent a jarring pain up Nicolò’s leg, and Al-Kaysani smelt of putrid blood. He felt like he was going to be sick, and he closed his eyes and pressed his forehead into the centre of the Al-Kaysani’s back, shifting only slightly as he felt a broken-off arrow scratching over his cheek.

He couldn’t say how long it was before Al-Kaysani pulled them to a stop, the horse’s head drooping slightly. The sun was starting to rise—they would be losing the cover of darkness, soon.

“He can’t take the both of us much further,” Al-Kaysani explained as he helped Nicolò down from the horse. “But he can still help us.”

Nicolò nodded, not really listening. Despite his leg having healed, it still twinged a little as his foot hit the ground, like some kind of phantom pain. He pulled himself together though, as Al-Kaysani shooed the horse away with a light slap to its hind-quarters.

“Are you sure?” Nicolò asked. “There’s no water out here. We need—”

“Damascus is not far,” Al-Kaysani said. “We can make it there. And hopefully, anyone pursuing us will follow the horse. But we need to hurry.”

Nicolò frowned. “D’Alsace said that they’re attacking Damascus today.”

“They’ll need to get there first.” Al-Kaysani’s lips turned up, but it wasn’t a happy smile. “Franks. You think us so beneath you that you can march your soldiers all day in the heat, attack, and then win within a week. This crusade will fail.”

Nicolò didn’t know if he shared Al-Kaysani’s faith in that, but he could definitely agree that it was likely. But. Even so—

“I don’t want to be part of this anymore,” Nicolò muttered. “The crusaders— _we_ did, have done, and will do awful things and I—”

“What if we can stop them?” Al-Kaysani wasn’t looking at Nicolò—his eyes were on his own hands, and Nicolò could guess that he was seeing blood on them. Nicolò had seen the same thing often enough. But as much as he could understand the other man’s actions, he didn’t understand his words.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, we can’t die. Maybe there’s a reason for that. Maybe, we’re meant to use this so that we can help put an end to all of this _death._ It would be somewhat poetic.”

“Is this something you’ve thought about all these years?” Nicolò asked, unsure. “I mean, it’s a nice concept, but…”

“Why do _you_ think that we are here?”

Nicolò thought back to his time in Genova, the four decades of trying to unravel the mystery of his curse. And here, Al-Kaysani was saying—that perhaps it was not a curse at all, but… what? A mission?

Impossible.

“How could we make a difference?” Nicolò couldn’t help but ask. “Even if we can’t die, we’re still only two. Two men, against everyone else. Neither side will wish to help us.”

“My friend,” Al-Kaysani said—and this time, his smile was as soft and real as anything Nicolò had ever seen. “Two men can make all the difference in the world.”

Nicolò still found himself unsure, but at the same time—the thought _was_ a tantalising one. The idea that he wasn’t damned, that he had been sent back to the realm of the living…

Sent back with a purpose, and _with_ Al-Kaysani.

Well, it was a fate far kinder than the one Nicolò had imagined.

If this truly had been God’s plan for him, then did it not validate every thought he’d had about his crusade? If he and Al-Kaysani were to work _together,_ did that not prove that his shame in killing the heathens – the _people_ – in Jerusalem was not a sin?

It was a validation that he probably shouldn’t have needed, but it lightened something in his chest which made it easier to breathe.

And as he met Al-Kaysani’s gaze, he knew that once again—he’d already made his choice without truly realising it.

Knowing that, he felt like there was only the one thing to do next.

“My name is Nicolò,” he said, the corners of his lips turning up as he held one hand out in front of him.

Al-Kaysani stared, for a moment—but the moment did not last long. 

“Nicolò,” the man echoed, reaching forward. “And I am Yusuf.”

And when their hands touched, the gesture untarnished for the first time by battle or pain, Nicolò felt a warmth that was only outshone by the deepening of Yusuf’s smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **tw** — (1) mention of self harm in the first paragraph, though only to watch it heal (2) a horse is injured in a fight scene.


	3. curiosity won

Putting one foot in front of the other is difficult when every step feels exactly the same.

Nicolò couldn’t have said how long they had been walking, save for by measure of the sun—and even that damnable glowing orb seemed to creep across the sky with a slowness matched only by their own progress.

 _Their._ His and Yusuf’s, that is—for he still walked with the heathen, his mood toward the other man growing increasingly irritable.

Yusuf, you see, had lied.

Oh, not about anything particularly important. Nothing lifechanging. Or life-ending, of course. Nicolò could recognise why Yusuf had decided to dismount where he had—the packed ground was harder than the usual, compressed rock instead of sand, and they left no footprints at first. But they couldn’t keep to the road, and after Yusuf had sent off the horse they had immediately turned and walked into the desert. Once they’d crested a hill and were out of sight of the road, the pair had paused for a while to take a much-needed breath. Nicolò’s leg had healed, but it still ached, and neither had Yusuf escaped the fight unscathed.

They spent some time digging arrow-heads out of each other with Nicolò’s dagger, which was not something Nicolò wanted a repeat of—and then, they _walked,_ heading for the city they knew was to be attacked that very day.

Which brings Nicolò to his point—because there was one thing that Yusuf was completely and entirely wrong about.

Damascus _was_ far.

Despite the slow movement of the sun, Nicolò honestly felt like they had been walking for hours, the heat somehow burning hot on the back of his neck and yet blinding his eyes at the same time. And trekking through the desert proper was harder than sticking to well-travelled routes, as with no road the ground was uneven and rocky, and every step felt as treacherous as standing in front of a charging bull. It was _nothing_ like his travels over the past couple of years. And on top of that, neither of them had any water.

It wasn’t like they would stay dead, but regardless of the outcome dying of dehydration under the Arabian summer sun was _not_ an experience Nicolò could recommend.

And to be entirely honest, Nicolò was finding it more and more difficult to see an enemy every time he looked at Yusuf. That was certainly something that was tricky to wrap his head around, even though it was his head making the shift.

Okay, so it wasn’t like Nicolò still wanted to kill the man. Even if it wouldn’t be a waste of all those years searching, after their joint escape from the crusader camp the thought of going back to the way that they had been in Jerusalem was…

Well, it wasn’t a thought that left a pleasant taste on Nicolò’s tongue. That was all.

That, of course, did not mean that he didn’t find the other man _incredibly_ annoying.

“Not too far now,” Yusuf said as they scrambled down a rocky hill, though his voice was little more than a scratchy groan.

“I believe you said that an hour ago,” Nicolò muttered, hardly sounding any better as he tried to force the words past the dust coating his throat.

“That was not an hour ago—”

“How can you tell? The blasted sun has not moved since it hit its zenith.”

“That is because hardly any time has passed. Stop whining.”

Nicolò pressed his cracked lips together. ‘ _Stop whining.’_ He wasn’t a _child._

Still, he supposed there was one thing to be thankful for.

“At least,” Nicolò said, “We are not marching in full armour. You are likely right about the crusaders, they will probably melt under all that chain mail. I think I’d rather be killed with arrows.”

In front of him, Yusuf ducked his head, and Nicolò tried not to ponder over whether or not the man was smiling.

To be fair to Yusuf, it was not much longer before the vegetation began to thicken, turning from pure desert into something more like farmland—and when they _finally_ crested yet another hill to see the city sprawled out in front of them, Nicolò could have cried, if he’d had the moisture to spare. As it was, the pair of them scrambled down the rocky slope so quickly they might as well have fell, and then plunged into the Baradā River – which flanked the city’s northern wall – with relieved sighs.

There was probably a bridge somewhere, but silently, they both agreed not to risk it.

They crossed quickly, the both of them thankfully knowing how to swim due to their pasts of living near and sailing on the sea. The water was far from the sweetest Nicolò had tasted, but it was sweet enough as it quenched the thirst from his dust-dry throat.

Nicolò wanted to enter the city immediately, but he could see the wisdom in Yusuf’s suggestion of moving south, and entering from the opposite direction as the crusaders. Still, that last trek along the eastern edge of the city was painful beyond repute. And by the time they joined the writhing crowd outside the city’s southern gate, Nicolò was about ready to fall over.

Despite the proximity of the invading force the gates were not yet closed, there were still people from the surrounding area trying to get inside the city—but the guards at the gates were still managing to question everyone. It meant a long wait in line, pushing to get through before the city was closed for good. Nicolò still didn’t entirely like the idea of being shut inside, but he knew there was nowhere else for them to go. Yusuf’s plan still seemed a little idealistic and out of reach to Nicolò, but even so—they couldn’t stay in the desert forever. They needed supplies.

When they reached the fringes of the crowd, however, Nicolò noticed their first problem.

“Yusuf,” he hissed, gripping the other man by his sleeve and pulling him close enough to hear. “Are they going to let me in?”

Yusuf’s brow furrowed at first, but as his gaze cast over Nicolò’s pale face, his eyes narrowed. “Have you got something you can cover your head with?”

“I have got nothing,” Nicolò replied, rolling his eyes. “Forgive me, for not picking up a helmet as we were running for our lives.” Nicolò didn’t know the word for helmet in Arabic, so that one word he spoke in Genoese.

Yusuf clearly understood, for he snorted. “I didn’t mean a helmet.” As he spoke, he reached for the cloth wrap that was tied around his waist, and then looped it over Nicolò’s head.

Nicolò felt ridiculous, but he stood still as Yusuf tugged and tucked until it covered most of Nicolò’s face.

“It’s the best we can do,” Yusuf said, tilting his head as he examined his handiwork. He was close enough that Nicolò could see light flecks in his otherwise dark eyes. “Certainly an improvement, regardless.”

Nicolò reached forward to shove at the other man’s arm, but Yusuf nimbly danced out of the way.

“Just, don’t speak any more Genoese until we get inside, yes?” Yusuf added.

Nicolò nodded, still half-glaring, and forced himself to resist the urge to fiddle with the scarf.

Somewhat sadly, but fortunately for them, many in the crowd were dirty from rushed travel, helping the mismatched pair to blend in a little more. Of course, no one else looked like they had been turned into pincushions by crusader arrows, but they all had their own problems, and it didn’t seem that anyone looked close enough to notice.

No one, until one of the guards at the gate.

“Business?” the guard snapped, glancing over the blood that stained Yusuf’s dark blue tunic—most having been washed away by the river, but not all.

“Business?” Yusuf asked, sounding a little incredulous. Nicolò might have reprimanded him for likely hurting their chances of being allowed inside, if he hadn’t been doing his best not to draw attention to himself. “Isn’t it obvious? There are unwashed barbarians on the doorstep, and when they arrive we would like to be behind your walls.”

The guard blinked, and then nodded, moving to step aside—

But then he saw Nicolò—and with a word on his tongue that Nicolò didn’t know the translation of, but which he had heard directed his way with a sneer many times, the guard drew his sword.

“No, wait!” Yusuf drew back, pushing himself between Nicolò and the guard as he spoke rapidly. “He’s with me, we have travelled together for years. He’s no crusader.”

Nicolò did his best to school his expression as those words fell from Yusuf’s lips. They weren’t true—he might no longer want to be part of what the crusaders were doing, but he had been one of them in the past. To say otherwise felt false.

The guard seemed equally unconvinced.

“He is a Frank—”

“He has travelled with me for years—Nicolò, tell this man how long we have travelled together—”

“Two years.” Nicolò added to the lies, taking even more care than usual to keep his Arabic steady. “I left my homeland many years ago. I would stand with Damascus against the Frankish invaders.”

The guard did not look entirely convinced, and his hand remained on his weapon. “We will not allow Franks into the city, you need to move along—”

Nicolò would later deny that he yelped as Yusuf grabbed him by the front of his clothes and yanked him through the gate, rushing past the guards with only the element of surprise on their side. And they probably wouldn’t have made it, if the people in line behind them did not see the opportunity for what it was and grasped it with both hands, the crowd surging forward in a wave that crashed through the open gates and spilled out into the street on the other side.

Nicolò stumbled, and grabbed at Yusuf’s arm—the other man let go of his shirt to grip Nicolò’s hand, and then the pair of them ducked around a corner and down a narrow alley. They came out in another street, leapt down some stairs, turned a few more corners and then fell out of the alleys and into a square. There, they began to move slowly, hoping to blend in and lose any remaining pursuers.

“Are you sure you were right about the crusaders’ chances of losing this fight?” Nicolò asked as he finally let go of Yusuf’s arm, trying to appear as casual as possible. “It was rather easy to get through the gates.”

Yusuf rolled his eyes. “It is not as if they will leave them open when the army attacks. And besides—if the crusaders have any sense at all, they will attack the city from the other side.”

“Still, that was… not smart,” Nicolò whispered, using Arabic as Yusuf had asked but not entirely pleased with the prospect of being overheard. “I am not exactly difficult to find, here—” 

“Please, you are far from the only Frank in the city,” Yusuf said, his eyes still darting through the crowd despite his forced-easy posture, looking for threats. “They have hundreds of people coming in every day, and they will not have got rid of all of them—”

“You expelled all the Christians from Jerusalem before the siege,” Nicolò said. “Even the ones who belonged there.”

Yusuf’s expression closed off a little. “Yes. And what little good that did us.”

Nicolò glanced away, something hard forming in his throat. He had spoken without thinking, but he knew that if he tried to take it back, Yusuf would only continue to back away.

So, instead of pressing, Nicolò took the chance to glance around the square they found themselves in. He was surprised to realise that it was a place he had been before, perhaps a year prior, while he had been travelling north in search of Yusuf. Back then, the city had been bustling with life, people buying and selling and hurrying and _living._

Now, the city was buzzing with the kind of energy one felt before a fall, standing upon a cliff and staring down at the ocean below. The kind of _dread_ that could only be known by those who had stared death in the face.

They all knew what was coming, and they likely all knew what had happened in Jerusalem fifty years before.

Everyone was scared, and the feeling… was somewhat infectious. Nicolò tried not to let it get to him, and as he spied a familiar street, he gestured for Yusuf to follow him.

“Come on, over here.”

At first, Yusuf looked surprised that _he_ was the one being led forward, but it seemed curiosity won the battle for his expression. At least until Nicolò brought them to the place he had stayed the last time he was in Damascus.

“Nicolò,” Yusuf said, looking up at the building with more than a little consternation. “This… is a church.”

“Yes, I know. They do not charge Christians to stay here,” Nicolò said. “We will be safe, and we will be able to rest.”

“Nicolò,” Yusuf said again, groaning. “ _Think_ about this.”

Nicolò matched Yusuf’s exasperated expression. “I _have_ thought about this, Yusuf. I am not unaware that you are not a Christian, nor am I unaware that staying here will bring us suspicion so long as there are crusaders trying to break down the gates. But where else are we to stay? On the streets? What if we get attacked, and one of us dies, and someone _sees—”_

“How about an _inn?”_ Yusuf cut in. “Or do they not have those where you come from?”

“I know what an inn is. But I don’t have any money.” Nicolò tilted his head. “Do you?”

The force of Yusuf’s glare was the only answer Nicolò needed.

“Right.” He took a step forward—

But was pulled back as his arm once again found its way into Yusuf’s hand.

“Nicolò.” It was the third time in as many minutes that Yusuf had said his name, but this time, there was something in the tone that made Nicolò stop. Yusuf’s gaze was worried in a way Nicolò hadn’t seen before, and he kept his movements slow as he lifted a hand to clasp Yusuf’s shoulder.

“Trust me.”

They held each other’s gaze, something passing between them that hadn’t been there before. They had shown each other trust already, of course—when Yusuf had not flinched as Nicolò cut his bindings; when Nicolò had blindingly clung to Yusuf as they rode away from the crusader camp. Even when they had fought side by side.

But this was the first time that trust had been asked for so plainly—and the first time that it was so very clearly given with a small, but decisive nod of Yusuf’s head.

Nicolò smiled, which softened his friend’s expression—and then he gave Yusuf’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before turning back to the church doors. They weren’t particularly ornate, not like those at the cathedrals Nicolò had seen in Fiorenza and Vèneta, but they were flanked by two Roman columns which gave the building that classical look of superiority. Walking into a church should have been as familiar to Nicolò as breathing, but with Yusuf by his side, he found himself carrying a touch of nervousness.

It probably just meant that Yusuf’s uneasy demeanour was contagious. Nicolò could just blame it on him.

Nicolò was surprised that the priest remembered him, out of the hundreds of faces that he must see every day. But when Father Ibrahim noticed Yusuf, well. Nicolò realised _why_ he had a been so memorable, and then he couldn’t keep his cheeks from flushing pink in embarrassment.

“Al-Kaysani, I presume?”

Yusuf, who had been doing about as good a job of trying to be unremarkable as Nicolò had at the gate, looked up in surprise. “How do you know my name?”

Nicolò spoke quickly. “That’s not important. Father, do you have space for us?”

Ibrahim glanced between them for a moment, and Nicolò wondered if the priest would ask further. But then, he sighed. “My son, you know that I cannot allow—”

“Please,” Nicolò cut in, stepping a little closer and staring at the priest with unabashed pleading. “We have nowhere else to go, and the streets are about to become dangerous places to be. Do the scriptures not say that whoever is kind to the needy, honours God?” 

Ibrahim sighed in what could only be defeat. “There is no one in the room you used before. Despite other places of worship being filled to the brim, not many want to stay here. But you will have to share a room, for if someone looks at my records and sees there is a Muslim staying here…”

“That is no issue,” Nicolò said, speaking in earnest. “Gratias tibi agimus, shukraan, thank you greatly for your generosity.”

The priest waved him off. “Thank me by continuing the work of God.” He glanced to the altar, his shoulders slumping a little. And although Ibrahim didn’t say it, Nicolò knew he was thinking of the invaders so close to the walls. “Dominus vobiscum, Nicolò.”

Nicolò bowed his head. “And with us all.” 

It was simple enough to lead Yusuf where they needed to go, the layout of the church simple and easy to remember. Thankfully, they didn’t run into anyone else—it would seem that the priest really had meant it when he said that most people were avoiding the Christian church.

The room was as small as Nicolò remembered, bare and windowless, and with only the one small bed pushed against the back wall. Yusuf headed straight for it, sitting down heavily and running a hand through his hair.

Nicolò shifted on his feet, feeling off balance.

“He seemed to know you well,” Yusuf said, the question clear in his voice.

“I stayed here last year,” Nicolò explained. Slowly, almost gingerly, he stepped closer and perched on the edge of the bed, a yard or so away from Yusuf. “While I was looking for you.”

Yusuf turned to Nicolò, his lips twisting in amused confusion. “Why did you think I would be in _Damascus?”_

“I started in Jerusalem,” Nicolò muttered. “I dreamt of you almost every night, but I did not recognise any of the places—”

“That is because my homeland is far from here,” Yusuf said. “Why did you not wait for the crusade? That was my plan.”

“I thought you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with another crusade,” Nicolò said, starting to get a little defensive. “I thought my best chance would be to search everywhere _else.”_

This time, Yusuf looked interested. “Why did you think that?”

“Well. You said you were tired.”

Yusuf spread his hands as he said dryly, “And from that you determined…”

“That you were tired of the killing,” Nicolò said, crossing his arms. “I know that I was. So I thought you’d stay away from the crusade, same as I. The moment I heard a crusade was to be formed, I left Italia to find you. I was worried you would leave, though I… I would have continued searching. No matter how long it took.”

“You,” Yusuf started, dropping his hands and pronouncing every word in his sentence as if it possessed two extra syllables, “Are an entirely ridiculous man, Nicolò di Genova. Do you ever not overthink things?”

“It’s worked so far,” Nicolò said defensively. “I found you, didn’t I? And in far less time than I thought it might take.”

“An argument could be made that it was _I_ who—”

“You only got yourself caught.”

“That is true,” Yusuf said, lifting one hand in a gesture of acquiescence. “ _But,_ had I not been caught, _you_ would still be wandering aimlessly in the desert.”

“I was not _aimless—”_

“Of course,” Yusuf said, leaning back slightly, still smiling. “You were simply walking from town to town, looking for—you _do_ realise what my family name _means,_ don’t you? No wonder no one knew who you were talking about.”

“That was the only name I had,” Nicolò shot back. “What name were you using to look for me?”

“I didn’t need a name. I just thought I’d go into the closest crusader camp I could find and follow the sounds of terrible swordsmanship.”

There was pause, the air heavy with a thick tension they might have been able to cut through with their blades.

Then—

“You go too far,” Nicolò said sternly. “Insult my culture, my religion, I can deal with that. But my sword skills? Careful, or I may need to challenge you to a duel.”

They stared at each other, expressions hard and unrelenting—

And then, as if a torch had been lit, Yusuf burst out laughing.

“No need for that,” Yusuf said in between his guffaws. “We both know I would win, anyway.”

And while throwing the thin pillow at Yusuf’s head might not have been particularly productive, it certainly made Nicolò feel better.

—~—

Nicolò couldn’t sleep.

After he and Yusuf had located some sustenance and the appropriate requirements for a quick wash, they’d both agreed that rest was most prudent, regardless of the time of day. The lack of windows in their room meant the sun could not bother them, and after a quick squabble over what to do about the single, small bed, they had both settled down to sleep.

But at least half an hour later, and Nicolò was still staring at the rough-hewn wall with eyes that refused to remain closed. He didn’t have the pillow, or a blanket – he’d given them to Yusuf since the other man had, rather ungraciously and combined with a comment about Nicolò’s fair hair, offered to sleep on the floor – but his sleeplessness wasn’t due to lack of comfort. He’d spent enough nights sleeping rough since his first visit to the Holy Land that such a thing no longer bothered him. Usually, Nicolò was perfectly capable of falling asleep wherever he lay down his head.

No, it wasn’t the lumpy straw mattress, nor the stuffy air—it was the sound of low breathing, the shift of cloth, and the constant prickle on the back of his neck reminding him that there was someone else in the room.

Nicolò had been alone for so very long that having someone else that close was… disconcerting, to say the least. And if the constant sound of shifting was any indication, it seemed that Yusuf wasn’t having much luck, either.

He turned onto his back, biting down a groan. Perhaps the view of the wooden ceiling would be able to lull him into slumber.

The rustle of a blanket cut through the silence again, and Nicolò sighed. 

“I can sleep on the floor, if it means that we’ll get any sleep at all,” he muttered.

There was short second of such silence that Nicolò wondered whether Yusuf was holding his breath.

“It’s not the floor.”

The moment he heard the tightness in Yusuf’s voice, Nicolò propped himself up on his elbow with a slight groan before he’d really thought it through.

“What is it, then? Tell me.”

Nicolò watched as Yusuf sat up, leaning back against the wall. The blanket was twisting in his hands, and Nicolò was struck with the odd urge to take it from him.

“It’s…” Yusuf stopped, the hesitation in his voice palpable. “You weren’t entirely wrong, before. When you assumed that I would want to avoid the crusades.” His lips turned up into a rueful smile. “Guess your thinking worked that out before I did.”

“It is not exactly something that is nice to think about.” Nicolò considered moving a little closer, and settled for turning so his legs were over the side of the bed, and his elbows were pressed against his thighs. “But you said it yourself. This will not be another Jerusalem.”

“No, you’re right. It won’t be.” Despite his words, Yusuf somehow didn’t sound like he was agreeing to what Nicolò had _meant_. And while it might just be Nicolò’s inexperience with the language again, he… he really didn’t think that it was.

Brow furrowing into a deep frown, Nicolò leaned further forward. He didn’t know whether words would be welcome, and he still wasn’t entirely certain where he and Yusuf stood, but he wanted the other man to know that he was there to listen. If Yusuf wanted.

It took a few stretched seconds, but the silence didn’t feel uncomfortable, not even so much as Nicolò had felt while trying to rest. But maybe it was _because_ it wasn’t uncomfortable that Yusuf felt comfortable enough to speak.

“I was sick of the invasion before it even truly started,” Yusuf said. “The Franks were trying to take that which wasn’t theirs, that which _hadn’t been_ theirs for four hundred years. I wasn’t fighting because I wanted to, because I enjoyed it. I was there because it was the right thing to do, because there were people who needed protecting, and if that—” Yusuf stopped, and drew a sharp breath. “If that cause hadn’t been lost, I would have continued fighting for an eternity.”

Nicolò couldn’t draw his gaze away from Yusuf’s shadowed face, and his voice felt heavy as he spoke. “Then why _did_ you stop?” he asked. “Jerusalem might have fallen, but if the people were your cause there were still plenty that needed protecting—”

“Because I _wasn’t_ protecting anyone, was I?” Yusuf asked sharply. “From the moment our blades crossed, my purpose changed, even if I didn’t realise it. I was still fighting you to protect those behind the walls you were trying to breach, but…” This time, he broke off with a shudder.

“But you killed that boy,” Nicolò breathed. “Because he killed _me.”_

“I don’t know what changed,” Yusuf muttered. “I still can’t say why I did it, only… when that spear hit you, I was afraid that you weren’t going to wake up. It was the first time I had seen you killed by someone other than myself, and I didn’t know if—well. I just realised, in that moment, that if you didn’t wake up… I would be alone.”

“But I did wake up,” Nicolò said. “And then you walked away.”

“You reached for your sword,” Yusuf said—and even in the dim light, Nicolò could see that his expression held that same sombre exhaustion it had that last day on the blood-soaked battlefield of Jerusalem. “I thought, then, that there was no way you were going to stop fighting me. You were there as a crusader, and I didn’t think that the killing would ever _end.”_

“That’s why you were looking for me in the crusader camps,” Nicolò whispered. “Even though you couldn’t have dreamed of me being there yet. You thought—that I would _want_ to be there again. You must see me as a monster.”

Nicolò bowed his head as his fingers dug into his hair, shaking as they raked back and forth. He should have realised this already—it was hardly like Yusuf was hiding it. But he was so caught on how _he_ had come to see Yusuf as something other than an enemy, he hadn’t stopped to wonder if Yusuf had made the same jump.

The last time they’d seen each other, Nicolò had killed Yusuf so many, many times. He’d killed many of Yusuf’s people, likely even some of his friends. And, what? He’d thought that just because they were the same, Yusuf would accept Nicolò as easily as Nicolò could accept him?

Yusuf hadn’t invaded Nicolò’s home and murdered screaming men and _boys_ in the name of a God who did nothing but spit Nicolò out of heaven again and again, sending him down for more and more killing—

“Nicolò, you are thinking too loudly again,” Yusuf said. Nicolò hadn’t noticed the other man moving, and almost jumped as a hand landed on his shoulder. “Just, relax.”

“I am so sorry,” Nicolò said, his breath coming out of him in ragged gasps. “I should not have been there, I should not have killed you so many times—”

“I killed you equally as many,” Yusuf said. “More, probably, considering that I _am_ the better swordsman.”

Nicolò huffed a broken laugh at that, and Yusuf let out a small sound that might have been of relief.

“There you go. Now, I think it is your turn to tell me—what is going on in that head of yours?”

Shaking said head once again, Nicolò repeated, “I _am_ sorry.”

“It is not your fault.”

Nicolò looked up in surprise, turning to the man sitting beside him to see that Yusuf seemed… sad.

“I tried to hate you,” Yusuf said, holding Nicolò’s gaze. “For so many years, I tried. Yours was the Frankish face I knew best, the face I saw every night when I closed my eyes. I tried to blame it all on you, to pin all of pain, all of the suffering from all of the attacks upon _you._ But when I dreamt of you, it wasn’t hate that I felt.” Yusuf drew a breath, and as he finally glanced away—Nicolò felt like he too could breathe once more. “Even on the battlefield, even then… there was something about you, Nicolò. The way you always killed me quickly, instead of leaving me to suffer a slow wound. The way you seemed as equally horrified as I was. Nicolò… I knew, even back then, that you weren’t a monster. I wasn’t tired of fighting to protect my people, I couldn’t ever be. I was tired of fighting _you.”_

Nicolò took a moment to process, not quite managing to compute his earlier thoughts with what Yusuf was saying. Except…

Hadn’t Yusuf said earlier, that he too had been searching for Nicolò? Why would one search for a man they believed to be a monster?

Nicolò drew a slow breath, and shifted back on the mattress to lean against the wall. It made it a little hard to keep looking at Yusuf’s face, but Nicolò found a way to manage—and managed better when Yusuf moved to join him.

“You know, in Jerusalem…” Nicolò sighed. “I didn’t want to fight you anymore, either. And when you left, I thought… well, it’s as you said. You were the only other person like me, and you left. I thought I would be alone, that God was punishing me for my sins. The Pope promised that crusaders would have paradise, but I knew I was not, _am not_ pure. I wondered if being unable to die was God’s compromise for my punishment. So I went back to the crusaders, back into the city, and I saw—what they, what my people had done in the name of the God I have been taught to love—I think perhaps, you don’t see me as clearly as you should.”

Yusuf spoke immediately, as if he did not even have to consider his answer. “No. I think I can see you.” Then he smiled, a soft thing that reached his eyes. “Even if you do make no sense most of the time.”

“Because of my Arabic?” Nicolò asked, frowning.

He wasn’t sure if he’d be more annoyed with a yes or a no, but Yusuf just kept smiling, and did not answer.

So Nicolò sighed. “Do you… really think that we can help stop it from happening all over again?” he asked.

“I think that we can only try.” Then, Yusuf leaned to the side, bumping his shoulders together. “After all, we’ve been back in each other’s company for almost a day, and we haven’t killed each other once. I’d say we’re already making progress.”

Nicolò snorted. “The day isn’t over yet.”

Things went quiet after that, calm washing over them once more. They stayed sitting together, backs to the wall, shoulders touching, and their heads slowly leaning closer as they each began to lose their grip on wakefulness.

And, finally, in that sparsely furnished room and with his former enemy’s head resting warmly against his shoulder, Nicolò managed to fall into sleep.


	4. about the waiting

Nicolò woke suddenly, his limbs moving before his mind caught up with what had awoken him. He was already across the bed, hand around the hilt of his sword when he registered the hammering against the door—as well as the tired groan behind him.

“They’re here! The Franks have crossed the river, they’re here!”

The banging ended and Ibrahim’s voice faded away from their door, shouting further down the corridor—but Nicolò was already wide awake, and he turned to stare at Yusuf in horror.

“It’s starting.”

Yusuf’s answer came in the form of a half-groan. “Already? I feel like we only slept five minutes.”

Nicolò took a moment to take in Yusuf’s state. While Nicolò already felt wide awake, the other man looked utterly _exhausted,_ dark rings under his eyes and a downturn to his lips that didn’t look quite right. Still, despite his weariness it only took a moment for Yusuf to begin to move, shifting over the mattress, getting to his feet and then reaching for the blade he had left on the ground.

It was… somewhat surprising, how unbothered Nicolò felt by the way they had fallen asleep. He buckled his sword belt around his waist without needing to look, choosing to watch as Yusuf examined the edge of his own blade instead. It was hardly the first time that Nicolò had seen that sword up close – indeed, he had seen it _far_ closer – but it was the first that he’d had the chance without knowing it was about to end up in his gut.

It really was a wicked looking thing, though perhaps that was only because Nicolò knew firsthand how effective it was—that curved blade had run red with his own blood more often than anyone else’s. Regardless, Nicolò could see beauty in it as well as death, and he was still staring as Yusuf looked up to meet his gaze.

The glance lasted only a moment—then they were both hurrying for the door, pushed forward by an instinctive need to know what was happening, so that they weren’t caught unawares.

They encountered more people inside the church than before, but no one had the time to look at them, to notice that Nicolò was a Frank and Yusuf was not a Christian. Their feet hit too hard and too fast against the stone for what was proper in the house of God, but Nicolò did not think the Lord would mind—and they exploded through the doors and out into a busy street.

Nicolò knew it wouldn’t be long before these streets cleared, people hiding away with their families to wait out the worst. But for now, they were hurrying to get what last little food they could, not knowing how long this siege would last.

The late afternoon sun was still blinding hot, and Nicolò lifted a hand to shade his eyes as he looked about them. At his side, Yusuf was doing the same, though one of his hands remained firmly on the hilt of his sword.

It was only then that Nicolò was hit with the sudden realisation that both their clothes were still splattered with blood, not all of it having washed away in their earlier dip in the river. The dark colour hid most of what was left, but not enough to look normal.

Not that it mattered. Nicolò did not doubt it would be long before they would blend in.

With that, Yusuf looked up, as if he could sense that Nicolò was once again watching him. As their eyes caught, Nicolò’s hand fell back down to his side, and wordless communication passed between them. Something had changed overnight—something Nicolò wasn’t sure he could give a name, but something that was as tangible as the blade that rested at Yusuf’s hip.

Yusuf reached forward, then, and for one, odd second, Nicolò almost thought that Yusuf was going to stroke his cheek. Instead, Yusuf grasped the edge of the scarf that still lay around Nicolò’s neck, and lifted it up to arrange it over his head and around face once again.

“I thought you said I wouldn’t be the only Frank,” Nicolò said, not exactly complaining – his voice felt a little thick for that – but nor was he entirely happy with the arrangement.

“I’d rather be safe now than sorry later,” Yusuf said, shrugging his shoulders a little. “Besides. It might help protect that fair skin of yours from the sun. You crack like a pomegranate.”

Nicolò pulled a face, but did not argue. He was sure Yusuf was right—the sting in his cheeks earlier that day had certainly felt like his skin was peeling all the way off, though it hadn’t taken long before it healed. But to be fair, Yusuf hadn't been much better himself. 

Their moment of peace was broken by the sounds of marching soldiers pushing through the streets, men hurrying and falling in and out of formation in the rush to get to the battlements, ready to defend the city. Nicolò threw out one hand, pushing Yusuf back onto the steps of the church, so that they were out of the way. Yusuf gripped his arm as the soldiers hurried past—but before they were all gone—

“You there! Which gate do you defend?” Yusuf’s voice was clear as crystal, and stopped a few of the soldiers in their tracks. Nicolò could have hit him.

“The Franks are attacking from the west. You’d best get back inside—”

“We can help.” Yusuf pushed past Nicolò, stepping in front of him and placing his hand on the hilt of his weapon. “We are both skilled swordsmen.”

The soldier who seemed to be in charge of this particular band glanced past Yusuf and towards Nicolò instead, expression both wary and questioning.

And although he remained unsure, Nicolò had already decided to trust Yusuf. He shrugged as he said, “We’re all stuck inside these walls, no? If the invaders aren’t pushed back, we will all suffer, soldier or not.”

The man nodded, accepting the logic in that. “Come with us, then. We’re to relieve the archers on the western wall, but there will be infantry you can offer your aid to.”

“He can shoot,” Yusuf said, nodding to Nicolò. “Find us some bows, we’ll be of use on the walls.”

Nicolò wondered what Yusuf was playing at there, as he hadn’t seen Yusuf so much as touch a bow. But the soldier nodded – at this point in a siege, archers were more useful than swordsmen regardless – and they continued on.

As they walked, Nicolò sighed under his breath and muttered in his native tongue. “For the second time in two days, I am recruited into an army I want nothing to do with. Why does this keep happening?”

Beside him, Yusuf snorted and responded in the same. “Maybe you just have a trustworthy face.”

“I thought you said I looked like a pomegranate.”

“Yes, a very trustworthy one.”

Nicolò rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help feeling somewhat smug. It wasn’t long ago that Yusuf had wanted to kill him, after all.

“Well,” he said, switching to Arabic and smiling innocently at a soldier who was giving them a curious look. “It does seem that you were right about them attacking on the other side.”

“Of course I was. Even Franks know that an army cannot survive without water. An army that marches into a desert without it will lose, and so they are attacking through the orchard. But the people here know that anyone would do exactly that, and that is why that side of the city is far better defended than the other.” Yusuf glanced at Nicolò out of the corner of his eye. “It is also why I wanted to enter from the south.”

Nicolò huffed—he hadn’t complained about that _at all._ But he didn’t comment further. They had far more important things to be worrying about—

Such as the fact that they had just reached Bab Al-Jabiya, the western gatehouse.

Nicolò’s eyes widened as he took in the sight. There were already men streaming back in through the walls, wounds gushing blood as they were held up in the arms of their comrades. It was clear that the fighting had been happening for quite some time—Nicolò guessed that the defenders must have been trying to push the crusaders back before they’d even reached the walls. It was concerning—not only because the crusaders were clearly still pushing forward despite what must have been a gruelling march, but also because he couldn’t help but wonder if the early defence meant they were worried for the strength of their walls.

Nicolò hoped that Yusuf was as right about the strength of the defences as he was about the direction the crusaders would attack from. Though as he looked at the scale of it, Nicolò couldn’t help but think back to what Yusuf had said in the desert after their escape from the camp, those hopeful words that felt days instead of mere hours away.

 _Maybe we can stop it_.

Yusuf had seemed so sure that they would be able to make a difference, but looking at the numbers of injured men streaming through those gates, seeing the activity, the writhing mess, the piles of weaponry and barrels of water and carts of rocks—

The growing lines of corpses—

It all just seemed rather… _momentous._

He had to trust, though. He had to trust that they _were_ there for a reason, that God hadn’t just thrown him to the wolves for no true purpose.

And if there really was a chance to do something to stop the death… then maybe Nicolò’s curse truly could become something he could live with.

—~—

War is about the waiting.

That’s a thing that any soldier knows, though not one that many would admit. Growing up, Nicolò had heard stories of war, of great battles fought and won, even of attacks on his own city. He hadn’t heard of the moments in between—of the boredom, of the fear, the dread, the _not_ _knowing._

Of the waiting.

Even knowing that there was a battle raging outside the gates, even hearing the distant shouts and screams, it was the _waiting_ that cut through the mind and made a man go mad. It itched under the skin, a bone deep ache mixed in with the nauseating horror of dread. Excitement, maybe—but only for those who had not been to war before. For even those who fought for glory could not deny the true nature of it all.

This time, it was almost worse than Jerusalem. Of course it was. This time, Nicolò knew exactly what to expect—and he knew how much it hurt to die.

Every crash was a flinch, every cry from beyond the walls a stab of unease. Nicolò closed his eyes, bowing his head over the sword he held point-down in his hands. He didn’t want to be too obvious, as he was sitting on the ground, leaning against a wall in a long line of soldiers with whom he did not truly belong. Yusuf had handed him some armour pulled from a corpse, and he still wore the other man’s scarf up over his nose under the coif. He’d even noticed that Yusuf had been right, and he was far from the only European in the ranks—yet the feeling of being out of place remained. But the act of prayer calmed him some, and he believed it worth the risk of being discovered.

It wasn’t words that drifted through his mind, not truly. Just a few desperate wishes and hopes, along with a plea that this would not go the same way as it had last time. That God would not allow those who fought in his name to spill the blood of innocents once more.

Yusuf was shifting beside him, muttering something under his breath. The soft sounds distracted Nicolò, and as he listened to the words over the cadence of his own thoughts, he realised that Yusuf was praying as well.

It was the first time that he had heard Yusuf do so. On his travels, he’d learned that Muslims prayed often, just as often as Christians—though admittedly, Nicolò had been rather remiss the past few days. He supposed that his negligence was normal, hopefully forgivable. He knew how well war could equally pull mundane routines from one’s mind as surely as it brought religion to the forefront in the moments before a battle.

He also knew that he wasn’t headed for any kind of afterlife—nor was Yusuf, of course. And yet, just knowing that there _was_ some sense to this… that there _had_ to be some sense to this—

Well, it _used_ to help.

But as Nicolò watched Yusuf, he found that he calmed more surely than he had while praying. It was blasphemy to even allow the thought into his mind, but… Yusuf was _there,_ close and tangible and— _present._ Not only that, but Yusuf was… inarguably good.

And if Nicolò’s God were the reason behind horrors that had happened in the past as well as those that were soon to come… then perhaps Yusuf’s would help.

When those dark eyes snapped up to meet his, Nicolò found he didn’t mind that Yusuf had caught him looking _again_. It wasn’t like Yusuf didn’t already know that his face was the constant star of Nicolò’s dreams. He’d been looking at that face for nigh on fifty years, and he wasn’t about to stop now.

“You know, if you want to commission a painting—”

“What will happen if one of us dies?” Nicolò asked in Genoese, cutting across the question before Yusuf could make fun of him again. It wasn’t so much that Nicolò _minded_ when he did so, it was more… that he didn’t think he could cope with the confusion of it all in amongst everything else. And besides, his question _was_ legitimate.

Yusuf pressed his lips together, considering. “We died in Jerusalem.”

“No one saw us. No one that lived, anyway.”

“No one here knows us. It is less of a risk to us than it was before—if they see us fall, how are they to know it is the same man they see again later?”

Nicolò sighed. “It’s just… I cannot stop thinking about what that man did to you. Petrus.”

Yusuf glanced away. “You weren’t there to see it.”

Nicolò thought of the blood that had lined Yusuf’s skin and clothes. “It wasn’t hard to guess. And I fear that if someone sees us, then that might happen again. We’re not…” He trailed off, unsure of how to finish. Normal? Right? _Natural?_

Thankfully, he didn’t need to choose a word—Yusuf understood.

“No. We’re not.” Yusuf swallowed. “We shall just have to survive. The same as everyone else.”

“Then how can we be of help?” Nicolò asked, half aware it was unfair to demand such answers from Yusuf but finding himself unable to stop the trying. “How can we help end this if we are no different to anyone else? Everyone here, they are fighting for their home. They will be fighting ten times harder than we ever could, and yet we’ve _seen_ how little can stand against a crusader army. So _how?”_

Nicolò felt a little out of breath as he finished, and Yusuf was watching him with a mix of surprise and concern.

When he spoke, however, his tone was empty of all expression, and despite the lack of hostility in them, the words felt cold as they reached Nicolò’s ears.

“Do you want to leave?”

“What?” That hadn’t been a question Nicolò had expected in the slightest—because he was there, was he not? He had followed Yusuf this far. Was that not already an answer?

But Yusuf, it seemed, was after something a little more solid.

“We could, you know,” Yusuf said. “Bab Al-Saghir, the southern gate will still be guarded, but not by many, and we both know they will not be a match for us. Now that we are fed, we could take some provisions and leave the city to its fate, whatever that may be. We would be safe.” Yusuf watched him carefully, and Nicolò was not unaware of what he was doing. “Is that what you want?”

“You know that it isn’t.”

“Do I? You told me that you didn’t want to be a part of any crusade anymore. Does that extend to not wanting to stop one?”

Frown deepening, Nicolò took his time to think of a proper answer—but before he could give anything voice, they were interrupted by shouts from the man they had followed to the gate, soldiers rousing as they prepared to relieve the archers on the wall.

Yusuf didn’t move, his eyes still boring deep into Nicolò.

Nicolò did not look away, not until he was jostled by a man hurrying past him, the impact to his shoulder turning him around and almost pushing him to the ground. His grip on his sword prevented him from falling entirely, and he then he reached to steady himself on Yusuf’s shoulder—but his hand just hit the wall beside him, instead.

Nicolò frowned, and looked up to see that Yusuf was on his feet—and he was holding out his hand. 

It was the second time that Yusuf had reached down to help Nicolò up, though this time, there was no desperation to the action. This was not a necessity.

And as Nicolò clasped his hand and Yusuf pulled him to his feet, Nicolò knew that the conversation was done. Even though it felt like… they still had more to say.

But there was no _time—_ Nicolò could hear the calls growing louder, and someone bumped into them again – hitting Yusuf’s shoulder, this time – and pushing them closer together.

Nicolò’s grip tightened on Yusuf’s hand.

“I’m not leaving,” he said.

And Yusuf smiled, though it lacked the warmth of the smiles he’d worn while sat on a too-hard bed. “All right. Then just… don’t die. Please.”

Nicolò nodded. “You neither.”

Then the wave of the crowd pushed them up the stairs of the gatehouse and crested out onto the wall, and Nicolò gained his first true sight of a crusade from the other side.


	5. shadow of fear

Nicolò broke his promise about three minutes in.

He’d seen an arrow coming, and had lurched to the side—it would have killed the man next to him. Not Yusuf, but the young man to Nicolò’s right, who most certainly would not have woken up again afterwards.

The arrow _did_ kill Nicolò. He knew, because when he woke up he was propped against the wall in a position he knew he couldn’t have fallen into, and Yusuf’s face was far too close.

“There we go,” Yusuf muttered, frowning as he dropped the red-painted arrow to the ground. Nicolò glared at it, and spat out a mouthful of blood with a groan as he felt the wound in his throat close. “I thought we agreed—”

“If I am here, I am going to do as much good as I can,” Nicolò said, voice hoarse at first but growing stronger by the second. “If that means saving only one life, then so be it.”

It was only as he spoke that Nicolò realised the truth of it—perhaps Yusuf’s earlier words had got to him, or maybe it was just the fact that he was now back in the thick of battle and his mind had adjusted as such. But whatever the case, Nicolò knew. He’d meant it when he said he wasn’t leaving, and that meant that he was going to give this all that he had.

Yusuf gave him an odd look—but the shouts around them didn’t leave time for conversation, and it wasn’t long before they were forced back up to their feet.

Luckily, the man to Nicolò’s right did not even look over, and Nicolò followed his example, hefting the bow he had dropped when he’d been shot.

The weapon had been shoved against his chest as he’d approached the wall, and the shape was very different from what he knew. The curves reminded him of Yusuf’s sword, though, and despite the extra strength it took to pull, Nicolò found he rather liked the feel of it. It was quick to reload, fast to fire, and Nicolò tried not to think about where his arrows were landing as he shot one after the other down into the mess below.

The western side of the city was nothing like their approach had been—instead of rocky desert dotted with a few trees here and there, it was filled with rich orchards and gardens. The people of Damascus, it seemed, had diverted the water from the river and formed an area perfect for growth, infused with the kind of life one would not expect to find in a desert. It meant that the Christians had plenty of water—and the Muslims had plenty of cover as they’d hidden amongst the greenery, attacking the crusaders from all directions even as the men on the walls continued to rain arrows down upon the army proper.

But the crusaders were giving as good as they got. The thick vegetation seemed to have dissuaded any attempts of making siege engines, but they were using their numbers to push the Muslims back, and along the road the Christian archers were getting within range of the walls—as proven by Nicolò’s death, earlier.

It was starting to look like it might turn into something of a stalemate, and in a siege—that was never a good thing. For either side.

The German crusaders back at the camp had surely been wrong. This already looked like it could last a while.

Still, Nicolò had no time to ponder—up on those walls, he was caught in every moment, counting the seconds only by the arrows he fired. Runners brought more ammunition up the walls so that the archers didn’t run out, and Nicolò didn’t think about the fact that their supply was far from infinite. Beside him, Yusuf was shooting with little skill—but skill was not needed when one was only shooting down into a forest.

The crusaders themselves were difficult to spot, hidden by the trees as they were—but their brightly decorated shields did not blend in as well to the greenery as did the armour of the Damascenes, and there were enough flashes of coloured surcoats and the reflection of sunlight on chain mail to provide a direction to shoot in.

Nicolò’s shoulder had long since ceased to feel normal, his arms laden and heavy. The string of the bow cut past his cheek on every shot, and were it not continually healing, Nicolò was sure there would be blood streaming down his face already. There were shouts in Arabic all around him, words that he did not have the concentration to understand—

Until a familiar voice broke into a flurry of curses, and Nicolò turned to see Yusuf fall beside him.

There was a crossbow bolt in Yusuf’s shoulder. It had pierced all the way through, each end sticking out of him like he was to be roasted on a spit. Nicolò grimaced, and swallowed against the bile in his throat as he reached to help Yusuf to his feet.

“We’re going back down.”

“Just pull it out—”

“If I do that, it will pull out half your shoulder—”

“Nicolò, I swear—”

“Come on, we’re moving.”

Yusuf cursed all the way along the wall and back down to the ground, but was hindered by the pain in his shoulder, and wasn’t able to turn back. No one stopped them as Nicolò half-dragged Yusuf around a corner—there were too many injured soldiers to worry about a couple more. Nicolò was so covered in blood from his own brush with an arrow that they probably thought neither were fit to keep fighting.

The moment they were out of sight of anyone else, Nicolò helped Yusuf slump down to the floor. Unfortunately, the move was a little rougher than he’d meant it to be, and Yusuf cursed again as he was all but unceremoniously dropped to the ground.

“Sorry,” Nicolò said, though his focus was already on the wound. “Now, stay still.”

He waited for Yusuf to brace himself, then gripped one end of the bolt. Unlike an arrow, it was too thick, too short, and too sturdy to easily cut off the head—so Nicolò was forced to pull the whole thing through the wound after only slicing off the fletch.

And while Yusuf did not scream, the sound he made had Nicolò’s insides clenching with nausea, and the moment the bolt was free he flung it to the side.

“It’s out, it’s gone,” Nicolò said in quick, simple Arabic, pushing his hands against both sides of the wound in an unnecessary attempt to stem the already ebbing bleeding.

Yusuf groaned again, and one of his hands came up to rest over Nicolò’s bloodied one. He looked up, and once again Nicolò was struck by how _easy_ it was to understand what this man was thinking.

“I died,” Nicolò said firmly. “I healed faster.”

“You know that’s not how it works.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Now it was Yusuf who would not stop staring, and Nicolò glanced away. He pulled his hand from under Yusuf’s and stood, but he still offered it back to help the other man stand as well.

Once Yusuf was on his feet, Nicolò reached out as if to touch the man’s shoulder again—but it was healed, there was no need, and he allowed his hand to fall instead.

“We should get back.” As he said it, Nicolò realised that he’d left his bow on the top of the walls in his haste to get Yusuf somewhere private. “And I need another weapon.”

“Maybe we should just stay on the ground,” Yusuf suggested. “I’d rather use my sword than be on the walls, anyway.”

Nicolò wasn’t sure how to respond, and he still felt more than a little out of sorts. So he just offered half a crooked smile, which didn’t even last the time it took them to head back into the fray.

—~—

Sieges are messy. They’re quick and they’re slow, they take an age and yet everything can change in a moment. By the walls, everything was action—further within the city there was an eerie stillness, a shadow of fear.

Nicolò wasn’t sure how long it had been since he and Yusuf had joined the defence of the wall, and even that had been long after the fighting had started. He knew that the crusaders had stopped as the sun fell, giving the defenders a chance for fitful sleep before the attack began anew in the morn. So it had been at least a day, but probably more, blood and pain mixed in with exhaustion and short bouts of fitful sleep.

Nicolò _did_ , however, know _exactly_ how long it had been since he had last seen Yusuf—

And therein lay the reason for the vice that was clinching around Nicolò’s throat, for the way that every breath felt like shards of ice scratching through his chest.

They’d been side by side the whole time, whether they were fighting on the wall, sleeping on each other’s shoulders, or helping to cover any injury that occurred—and Nicolò didn’t know how they had managed to lose sight of one another.

But the crusaders were pushing closer and closer to the walls. There were rumours through the ranks that the situation was proving so dire that Mu’in ad-Din, the Governor of Damascus, had been forced to call for aid. It certainly _felt_ dire, with the crusaders so close that their arrows were now making it _over_ the walls.

Yusuf and Nicolò had been by the main gates when the order came for them to be braced, just as one last group of soldiers left through the small wicket gate set into the larger doors in order to meet the crusaders on the ground. The Christians were pushing far too close, and the forays outside the walls would need to halt. Those who were still beyond the gates would either need to fend for themselves, or somehow get around to the other side of the city and hope to be let in through other means. Nicolò had run forward, helping two men lift one of the braces—and out of the corner of his eye, he knew he’d seen Yusuf move forward, as well.

The wooden beam was heavy and quickly hewn, and it left splinters in Nicolò’s hands as he helped two other men jam it up against the thick gates. He couldn’t help but think that they would not hold against fire, but they’d do a good job against any battering ram the crusaders might try—and the barrels of water had long since been carried to the top of the gatehouse.

Nicolò had been _sure_ that Yusuf was helping with another beam, and he listened out for his now familiar curses—

But his attention had been pulled as the doors shook and shuddered, and Nicolò pressed hard against them, shouting along with the others at his side as they fought to hold them while the last few braces were wedged into place.

And by the time Nicolò turned, his eyes wide and searching, breath panting heavy in exhaustion—

Yusuf was nowhere to be seen.

“Yusuf!” Nicolò shouted, feeling fear grip his throat, hearing his own voice crack. “Yusuf—”

“ _Move!”_

It wasn’t a voice Nicolò recognised, and the hands that pushed him were unfamiliar. He was shoved back into the throng of moving soldiers, all of them pulling away from the door.

“More men on the walls, they have ladders—”

Nicolò barely registered what was being said. He couldn’t see Yusuf, he couldn’t—all the men rushing about in their uniforms, their turbans, their coifs, splattered in blood and muck and hurrying to their next post—

It was no use. Frank, Damascene, Christian, Muslim, there was no telling anyone apart, yet Nicolò was sure he’d know Yusuf when he saw him. But he _didn’t._ Feeling it might be his only option, Nicolò forced his way toward the walls, sliding past the injured men coming down and pushing his tired legs hard to get up the steps, back up to the parapets.

Perhaps Yusuf had taken to higher ground—or perhaps higher ground would allow Nicolò the better chance of seeing him—

But there would be no looking inward from the top of those walls, not now. The arrows were shooting up from the ground in barrages as thick as a flock of starlings, and every man was needed to beat them back. Ladders were still being run at the walls, and looking out over the trees, Nicolò could see the makings of what looked like it might be a siege tower.

It would not be long before the tower was pushed through the orchard, and even for a well defended city such as Damascus—that would be hard to force back.

Nicolò took yet another bow from a fallen man and joined his current comrades, though every spare moment he spent glancing along the lines, looking for a familiar face in a horde of strangers.

It was no use, he knew that. But he tried anyway, even as the crusaders began to climb the walls like insects, their ladders numbering so many that the defenders couldn’t keep up.

Nicolò shared his crenel with another soldier, who would drop rocks down below while Nicolò reloaded his bow. They had something of a quick system, an in-and-out routine that kept the men on the ladder below them from reaching the stop.

At least until the man looked down from the crenel with a frown, and said something that Nicolò approximated to translate along the lines of, “Those poor bastards.”

And when it was his turn to glance out, Nicolò froze—

Because there were still Damascene soldiers outside the walls. Nicolò could see them, a group of about eight or nine heading back for the orchard, no doubt still wanting to harass the crusaders from the trees. Their swords were stained as red as the ground around them, and a few were clearly injured.

They were going to get cut to pieces.

And while Nicolò knew those men were most likely of that last group to leave, the ones who must have known that they would be unable to get back inside the gates, he couldn’t help but feel the same sympathy his fellow soldier had—

At least until he noticed the man on the fringe of the group, a man with a large stain of blood smeared across the back of his shoulder, visible even from the distance—and too large for a normal man to have continued fighting.

Once again, Nicolò felt like he was going to be ill—but this time, his nausea was not from the smell of the blood.

“You idiot,” he muttered, staring out in complete and utter horror. “What are you _doing?”_

Nicolò’s thoughts were pulled back to the present by a flash of silver, and he looked up to see that his pause had allowed a crusader to reach the top of his ladder. Nicolò snarled and shoved his bow at the man’s chest, pushing him from the ladder and causing him to fall and join the litter of dead on the ground.

But his pause had caused more damage than that, and Nicolò drew his sword to lash out at the next man to follow, causing him to gurgle as his lips stained red. And there were more and more and _more_ , another man to replace any that Nicolò cut down. He knew his expression was twisted into a snarl under the scarf he still wore below his Damascene coif. Sometimes, the men he killed would look at his pale skin and their eyes would widen—but Nicolò slew them anyway, and soon his face was too painted with blood for anyone to be able to tell the difference.

All the while, his mind was ringing once again with a familiar phrase, a turn of words that he had begun to know as well as any prayer.

_Maybe we can stop it._

The very thought spurred him on, forcing his arms to violent action, pulling anger from his heart. Because he didn’t feel like he was stopping the killing, he was only making it worse—but the memory of that voice reminded him that there was something else at stake here, and it was enough to force him on.

It shouldn’t have been the case, because he knew that Yusuf would survive, that Yusuf could not be cut down. But the thought was not as comforting as it should have been, because—

_What if one of us dies, and someone sees?_

Nicolò remembered the touch of fear that had stained Yusuf’s annoyance when Nicolò had jerked back to life atop the wall, back at the start of the siege. He remembered his own fear when Yusuf had been struck by a crossbow bolt, the terror in the knowing that he had to get Yusuf _away_ before someone saw him healing.

Nicolò hadn’t experienced the results of such a horror himself, but he knew in his heart that the fear he felt was real. They could come back, but if someone saw… they would be in a different kind of danger entirely. Maybe a second time, they wouldn’t be lucky enough to escape it.

And when yet another soldier reached the top of the ladder near Nicolò, when his blade crushed another set of Christian ribs, Nicolò snarled with the rage of a broken thing and put a foot up onto the battlements.

His hand gripped the ladder, and he prepared to push off the wall.

“What are you doing?” the soldier beside him shouted, his hands clutching his next rock in terror. “You cannot go down there alone, you will be slaughtered!”

Nicolò didn’t even hold the man’s gaze. He simply threw his leg over the wall and gripped hard to the ladder.

“No, I won’t.”

The ladder began to teeter, pushing upright and almost balancing for a moment—but Nicolò’s weight was enough to make the thing move further, and soon he was falling, the wind rushing past, ruffling the scarf over his face as he landed _hard._

Something snapped, and Nicolò’s left leg screamed in a manner that was similar to when it had been crushed by a horse. He fell to his back, staring up at the sky—but he didn’t miss the blade that swung toward his head, and grit his teeth as he lifted his own to meet it. And by the time his own sword was buried in his attacker’s gut, his leg felt steady enough to stand upon. It still twinged some, but he knew that it would only get stronger, and he could manage through the pain.

He was healing fast, and he needed to _move._

The grounds were thick with Christians, but Nicolò held firm. He was nothing but his sword, his whole body turning and twisting purely for the purpose of giving his blade the space it needed to do its work. It swung in a bloody arc as it danced between ribs and flesh, slicing lines of crimson and spilling entrails over the dirt. Nicolò’s boots were sinking into the blood-soaked ground, his clothes sticking to his skin. The armour he wore wasn’t enough to stop crossbow bolts, and he got one in the arm, then the leg—but he pulled them out with harsh grunts, and kept going.

He stood in front of the gates of Damascus, and he _fought._

Blades and arrows bit at his skin as he allowed some more minor hits to land, focusing his attention on stopping only those blows which would kill him. He continued to heal fast, and they couldn’t cut him down, his single-minded attacks slaying every man who tried. The noise was beyond comprehension, the sound of dying men mingling with the screams of rage, French and German slowly being overcome by Arabic—

It took far too long for Nicolò to realise that he wasn’t fighting alone, that the wicket gate was once again open, that he was being flanked by defenders pushing the crusaders back, back, _back—_

And as a cheer went up around them all, Nicolò realised that there were no more crusaders coming. They had halted their attack.

Nicolò was breathing heavily. There was an arrow in his shoulder again. He pulled it out, threw it to the ground. He was starting to hate those things.

Someone stepped up beside him, staring.

“Who _are_ you?”

Nicolò paid them no mind, nor the shouts from the walls, the calls of victory that he knew would be unlikely to last. A retreat did not mean a surrender.

It _was_ something of an achievement though, something that Nicolò had managed himself. He supposed that, once again, Yusuf had been proven right.

_We can make all the difference in the world._

Nicolò didn’t care.

He turned in the direction he had last seen Yusuf, adjusted his grip on his sword, and continued on.

A few of the men tried to stop him, and he did understand that going into the orchard would be risky now, that it might give the crusaders the advantage again—but he also felt that he didn’t have a choice.

Yusuf was still out there, and with the crusaders retreating… Nicolò didn’t like his chances.

So, steeling himself, Nicolò ignored the shouts of the other men, and ran after the fleeing Christians.

He caught up to more than a few, cutting them down as they turned to fight. From their expressions and the fact that he did not need to kill them _all,_ Nicolò realised that he had been followed, the soldiers at his back joining him despite their own initial consternation. He’d forced the advance, which meant he probably bore some kind of responsibility for it—

He took yet another arrow jumping in front of someone, turning so it hit him in the flesh of his arm. The soldier stared as he yanked it out, but Nicolò didn’t have the _time._

They chased the Christians through the trees, following the glint of chain mail and the flash of Fleurs-de-lis.

But then they came out of the trees and fell into a clearing in the orchard, and were met with a sight that froze every man in his steps.

The clearing looked like it had once been a beautiful garden, a place where people might have taken picnics. Now, the ground was littered with corpses, Damascene and Frankish both—and the air was rank with the stench of blood.

There were five Franks left standing, their chests bearing the Fleurs-de-lis of King Louis VII. The one in the centre stood tall, sword held ready in front of him—the other four had prisoners kneeling before them, four Muslims forced down on their knees. Four men, each with a sword held to their throat—

And Yusuf was one of them.

Nicolò felt something hot and angry rise in his chest, something he wasn’t sure that he had ever felt before. Something even stronger than when he’d first heard of apparent atrocities in the East, the whispers which had built upon old wounds and caused him to join Pope Urban’s crusade.

Yusuf met his gaze, his dark eyes achingly soft, seemingly out of place in his otherwise angry expression. As if Yusuf were trying to comfort _Nicolò._

For a moment, Nicolò wondered what he must look like for Yusuf to feel that such a thing was necessary.

“Turn back to the city,” one of the men said, his voice harsh and leaving no room for negotiation. “Retreat, let us leave, and we shall allow these men to do the same.”

The soldiers around Nicolò shifted—it was clear they hadn’t understood a word.

Nicolò spoke with force, uncaring if his pronunciation was incorrect. If it was, it didn’t seem to lessen the effect of his words.

“You will let _them_ go,” Nicolò said, his eyes leaving Yusuf’s only so that he could pin the man holding him with a sharp glare. “Or we shall kill you _all.”_

The ten or so men at Nicolò’s side raised their weapons, not one of them flinching at the language Nicolò had spoken in.

But the crusaders, it seemed, were not impressed. The only one without a prisoner, the one who seemed to be in charge, growled an order to the man on his right—the man holding Yusuf.

“Kill that one first.”

Nicolò was running before the Frank had finished his sentence, his sword raised and his lips twisted into a snarl. He saw the flash of metal, he saw Yusuf close his eyes—

And Nicolò’s blade separated the crusader’s head from his shoulders only a _second_ after Yusuf’s throat was slit.

All around Nicolò, he could hear the sounds of the fight—once again his own charge had incited that of the others, and they were all hurrying to free their comrades. But Nicolò stayed where he was, holding Yusuf tightly as red blood spurted from the slice in his throat.

It didn’t take long for Yusuf to go still, only mere seconds. Nicolò pressed his hands over the wound quickly, hoping to hide it from sight—for while a death on the parapets during the heat of battle might have gone unnoticed, he doubted that _this_ was something any of these men would be able to forget.

He leaned over Yusuf’s body as best he could, shielding him from view, trying to fight down his own fear, his own _guilt_ that he hadn’t been fast enough to stop this.

Because dying… it didn’t just hurt. It was the rip and tear of your soul, the gasping for breath, the fear of the dark, the terror of the unknown no matter how many times it had passed. It was as if their minds knew they would come back, but their bodies had yet to understand, and continued to hang on to life for as long as possible with all the horror that came with those last, final moments.

Thankfully, this time, Yusuf had died quickly. But that didn’t stop Nicolò from feeling responsible for it—

Nor did it stop the doubt that clawed under his skin, wondering if _this_ would be the time that Yusuf didn’t wake up.

And for the first time, it wasn’t just the thought of being alone that tore at Nicolò’s very being. It was the thought of Yusuf being gone from the world, of never again seeing that smile.

He tried to talk himself down, tried to reason with logic, but fear _can’t_ be reasoned with—

Then Yusuf woke with a broken _gasp—_

And Nicolò choked, pulling the other man as close as he could, pressing their foreheads together.

“Sancta Maria mater Dei,” Nicolò groaned, his hands digging hard into the back of Yusuf’s tattered clothes. “Don’t _ever_ do that to me again.”

Yusuf pulled away slightly, looking up with a gleam in his eyes that was far too entertained for the given situation. “Did you just _curse?”_ he asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse before.”

“Careful,” Nicolò said, unamused. “I am still considering stabbing you for this.”

“No, you’re not.”

Despite the irritating curve to Yusuf’s smile, Nicolò didn’t bother trying to deny that he was right.


	6. promises broken

Moments of true peace are hard to come by.

Once, Nicolò thought that peace could only be found by the grace of God, in the sanctified halls of a church and in the quiet calmness of prayer. But that moment in the clearing, sitting in the shade of fruit trees with bloody clothes sticking to his skin, Nicolò learned that the truth was something entirely different.

Peace could be found anywhere. All that matters is what you make of it.

Yusuf was warm in Nicolò’s arms, his back firm against Nicolò’s hands. His eyes were warm as well, with something in them that made it impossible to look away—and it was _there_ that Nicolò managed to find some peace.

The others were still moving around them, but Nicolò found he could not bring himself to care. He’d been through something he was still somewhat sure he didn’t properly understand, and sitting there on the ground with Yusuf was… comfortable, despite it all.

Well, at least until Yusuf had to go and open his mouth. That just reminded Nicolò of where they were and what had happened, what was _still_ happening—

Yet his words were softly spoken, and neither of them moved.

“Are you all right?” Yusuf asked.

Nicolò almost choked. “Am _I_ all right?” he asked. “You are the one who just died.”

“I’m still here.” Yusuf tilted his head. “You don’t quite seem yourself.”

 _That_ was enough to break the moment. Nicolò pulled away slightly, trying to get a hold of himself. Not because he was annoyed by what Yusuf had said, though he did have to admit it seemed strange that they had come to know each other so well so quickly—though, in a way, it hadn’t really been so very quickly at all. No, he pulled away because he wasn’t sure about how he was supposed to act around Yusuf anymore. Things were becoming… blurred.

There was one thing he _did_ know for sure, though.

“You’re an idiot,” Nicolò said, echoing his earlier words.

Yusuf blinked, then smiled. “Am I?”

“Yes! What were you doing outside the walls? By _yourself?”_

Nicolò didn’t mention the other soldiers that Yusuf had been with, and Yusuf didn’t, either.

“In my defence, I thought you were going to follow me,” Yusuf said, sounding a little put out. “You ran toward the door, same as I did.”

“Yes, to help _brace_ it,” Nicolò replied. “I didn’t expect that you would go charging outside when you knew it was about to be locked!”

“You’re the one who said we should do as much good as possible! Or are you the only one allowed to put himself in danger?”

“That’s not the same thing—”

“And that _is_ the same thing that you said before,” Yusuf cut in. “Why is it different when I’m the one hurt, Nicolò?”

Yusuf sounded like he was trying to dare Nicolò into admitting something, but Nicolò honestly couldn’t even begin to guess what.

“It’s different,” he said, not knowing what else to say. Anything he could have tried would have sounded false even to himself, as even he did not know the answer.

Yusuf sighed, and then the corners of his lips turned up slightly. “Well, then. I suppose I should say thank you for saving me. Again. This is turning into something of a habit of yours.”

Nicolò smiled back. “You should know by now that I’m the only one allowed to kill you and get away with it.”

“What makes you think I’d let you get away with it?”

They both shared the smile for a moment longer before finally pulling away and helping each other to their feet.

“We should head back,” Nicolò said. “The crusaders have retreated for now, but it won’t be long before they try again. We can help with the fortifications.”

“No.”

Nicolò closed his eyes, and slowly backwards counted from five in Arabic.

“Nicolò, we have an opportunity here,” Yusuf said, clearly seeing that he was going to need to argue his case. “You’re a Frank.”

“Yes,” Nicolò agreed, somewhat stiffly. “I am aware.”

“You could sneak into their camp, you could make them think you’re one of them. Watch them, and bring information back to _us._ Maybe even tell them something false. You could help us end them.”

“Yusuf,” Nicolò said, frowning as something cold curled through his gut. He’d thought… he _hadn’t_ expected— “When you said that you wanted to end the killing, that’s not what you meant, is it? You meant that you wanted to end the _Franks.”_

Something flashed in Yusuf’s gaze, something Nicolò was fairly sure he didn’t like.

Nicolò swallowed. “I see.”

“Nicolò,” Yusuf said, also frowning. “I thought you said that you didn’t want to be one of them anymore. That you _wanted_ to help me end this—”

“Yes,” Nicolò said. “I want to end the killing. Not… not _that.”_

It wasn’t that he thought the crusaders were better than the Damascenes, not the way he had been taught to, the way that he _used_ to. It wasn’t that he thought the crusaders were in any way justified, wasn’t that he thought this war held any kind of balance or middle ground. No, in this war, he _knew_ who it was that lay in the wrong, and it wasn’t the Damascenes. Nicolò couldn’t deny that the crusaders were committing atrocities, he hadn’t been able to for a long while.

But to kill them _all?_

That was something by which Nicolò couldn’t abide.

“Yusuf, they’re still people,” Nicolò said. “Terrible people, many of them, but people nonetheless. What if there’s another way, what if we can make them leave—”

“I know that, but they won’t.” Yusuf tilted his head. “You remember. You know what they’re like better than anyone. They’ll kill _you_ before they listen.”

Somehow, the words didn’t sting as much as they should have—Nicolò was sure, he was still _sure_ that Yusuf was an incredibly good person. He might not have known him personally for long but he _knew_ this man, and he remembered their conversation back in the basement room of the church. Yusuf knew that Nicolò had changed, that he didn’t see things the same way he had when he’d first boarded a ship in Genova.

And, yet again, he was _right._

The crusaders weren’t going to leave easily, and if Nicolò wanted the killing to stop… he was going to have to help Yusuf _make_ them.

Nicolò groaned, and rubbed his hands over his face. He had been forced to reconcile himself with killing Christians, and he could do it in battle, he could do it to _protect._ But there _had_ to be another way, and Nicolò had to at least try to find it.

He heard Yusuf clear his throat. “If you’re going to do it,” Yusuf said, words a little hesitant now,  
“Then perhaps you should take some of these Frankish surcoats. They will think you one of theirs—”

“No.” Nicolò turned before he opened his eyes. One of the other soldiers was watching him, but glanced away as Nicolò met his gaze. “I won’t wear that. I’m not French.”

He didn’t know why that was important—he would already be committing lies and treason and _blasphemy_ by going along with Yusuf’s plan. Though, he couldn’t even say when it was that started to actually consider it.

Had it been anyone other than Yusuf talking, Nicolò knew he would have cut down any notion of it from the start.

“You are wearing _our_ armour—”

“I fought for you, as I said I would. Now it’s time to fight for everyone. As I thought you wanted, as well.”

“Nicolò, if they—”

“Yusuf,” Nicolò said. “Please.”

Dark eyes bore into his with enough force Nicolò thought it might have been able to break him. He was no longer sure what they were arguing about—whether it was over the killing of Christians, or Nicolò putting _himself_ in possible danger.

Slowly, Nicolò took one step closer, wanting to try and reach something of an understanding. He and Yusuf had been on the same page since the start of all this, and he didn’t want it to come to an end now.

Not when they’d come so far.

But just as he began to form his words, he was cut off by a shout from the trees and the cacophonous sound of charging soldiers.

Nicolò and Yusuf exchanged a panicked look—

But then expressions cleared, and it was as if they knew exactly what the other was thinking. There was no way that they would be able to get out of this without dying.

Yusuf grabbed his blade from the ground—

Nicolò reached up to pull the scarf from his face—

Yusuf shouted in Arabic for the others to _run—_

Then Nicolò raised his sword, and _charged._

As their blades clashed together with the sound of ringing metal, Nicolò couldn’t help but remember words that had been spoken in the midst of exhaustion.

_This will not be another Jerusalem._

Nicolò had been talking about the slaughter of innocents, but he’d had the sense that Yusuf had meant something else.

And as their eyes met over the edges of their crossed swords, expressions twisting into angry snarls that echoed through five decades, Nicolò wondered if Yusuf was having the same thought as he.

The pack of crusaders entered the clearing as he and Yusuf parted—only to come together again and again, swords meeting, blocking, parrying, _attacking_. Nicolò’s feet danced between the bodies and fallen weapons on the ground as he slashed at Yusuf again and again, giving no mercy, no quarter.

“What are you doing?” Yusuf growled, getting a few words in between the clash of their swords. “I thought you were helping us!”

“I will not betray my brethren,” Nicolò snarled back—though he spoke not in Arabic, but Occitan. The same language they had shared in Jerusalem. “I will not kill any more of _my people_ in the name of this war! This is _enough!”_ He thrust forward on his last word—

Yusuf’s eyes went wide, his sword fell from his hand—

And as Nicolò pulled his own blade from where it had become lodged in the other man’s side, Yusuf’s lifeless body hit the ground with a very final _thump._

Nicolò stared at him for a moment, feeling half in shock. It was the second time he’d seen Yusuf die in mere _minutes,_ and yet it wasn’t any easier than the first. He felt something clench inside his heart—then felt something go very, very cold.

He knew that Yusuf would be all right. He would wake, he would be able to get back to the city. He would be _fine._

And yet… as he looked up to meet the confused gazes of the crusaders, Nicolò couldn’t help but feel like when Yusuf had died, he had taken something important with him.

“What is this?” one man asked, the gold Fleurs-de-lis on his chest glinting in the sunlight as he slowly stepped closer, sword raised. “Who are you?”

Nicolò allowed himself one last glance at Yusuf before unceremoniously stepping over his body and toward the crusader, sheathing his own bloodied sword as he did so.

“Take me to your commander,” he said, his voice somewhat harsh. “I have information that he’s going to want to hear.”

—~—

The crusader camp was barely any different to the last one, which in turn had differed little from those Nicolò had seen before. It reminded him that this was the same old story, reminded him of the inevitability of it all ending the same old way.

As he was led through it by two of the French soldiers who had led the attack in the orchard, Nicolò saw something of a crowd gathering near one of the tents, but the numbers of people prevented him from seeing what was going on.

So he asked.

“They’re showing the men the True Cross,” one man said, crossing himself as he spoke. “Reminding us that we cannot lose this fight, as we have God on our side.” He glanced to Nicolò. “If your information is what you said it is, perhaps He was the one who sent you.”

 _Perhaps,_ Nicolò thought. Regardless, he was _there._

He was led to a tent—modest, smaller than what Nicolò would have expected of a king. So he likely wasn’t being brought to see King Louis VII of France, nor the King of Germany, nor even the _other_ king he’d heard rumours of. That was a setback, but Nicolò supposed it was ludicrous of him to have even entertained the notion that he would be brought directly before one of _them._ Still, he thought he would be able to make his plan work.

But when Nicolò was led inside and he saw the man standing over a table strewn with maps, his eyes widened in shock. Because it wasn’t some nameless commander who would see him and think him a simple Christian caught on the wrong side of a war.

No.

It was Thierry D'Alsace, Comte de Flandres.

Damn.

“Nicolò di Genova. My, you are a surprise.” Thierry’s expression was dark, his hand already on his sword as his eyes passed over Nicolò’s armour. “I suppose I should have guessed that you would be with the Saracens.”

“No,” Nicolò said quickly, knowing that he would need to revise his plan. “I wasn’t fighting for them. I was in the city when you attacked, and I got myself _out_ of the city to bring you information.”

Thierry did not seem convinced. He looked to the soldiers who had brought Nicolò in, who remained standing behind him.

“We found him fighting a Saracen,” one said. “He was saying that he didn’t want to kill any more Christians.”

“And I don’t,” Nicolò said quickly. “I’m here to help you, I’ve been trying to help you this whole time.”

“Even if I did believe that, it does not change the fact that you _have_ killed many of my men,” Thierry said—though to be honest, he didn’t seem that upset about it. “However, I _do_ wish to know what happened to the man you escaped with. That’s information you can give me.”

“He’s in the city somewhere,” Nicolò said, shrugging. “Can’t say where. I left as soon as I could. As your men saw, I had to fight my way out.”

Thierry’s hand stroked across the pommel of his sword once again. “Interesting. You see, the men who managed to make it back through the orchard have told me that the gates were defended by a man who would not fall, no matter how many arrows they put in him. It seemed impossible, and I know that our King is dismissing it as the fantasy of fearful men. I wondered if it was the same heathen curse that I saw before. And here _you_ are, mere minutes after I heard the reports. The man who left with the heathen who would not die.”

Nicolò lifted his chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I helped that man escape because torture was not working, and because I thought it might help me gain his trust. And it worked. I’m here now, and I have information about the city that could help. Unless, of course, you don’t want it?”

Thierry was clearly thinking again, watching Nicolò carefully—but before he could speak, they were interrupted by something of a scuffle outside. Nicolò winced as he heard the sound of a fist hitting flesh—then his eyes widened as a familiar voice shouted Arabic curses.

No, no, no—

This wasn’t meant to happen, he wasn’t meant to _be_ here—

As he entered, a soldier threw a rather unmistakable Muslim to the floor of the tent. “Found this one sneaking around the edge of camp, Mon Seigneur.”

Yusuf landed with a groan, and Nicolò fought to school his expression. The soldiers who had brought Nicolò in looked slightly confused, but Nicolò just hoped that they would think, like Nicolò had heard many others say, that all Muslims looked the same.

Thierry, on the other hand, recognised him immediately, and his gaze snapped straight to Nicolò.

“I thought you said you didn’t know where he was?” Thierry barked. “It would seem you were lying.”

“No,” Nicolò said, voice calm. “I’ve told you before, I haven’t lied to you.” This time, however, that _was_ a lie. But Nicolò kept going. “He must have followed me from the city.”

Remaining unconvinced, Thierry’s eyes stayed on Nicolò even as he gestured for the guards to pull Yusuf to the side of the tent. Nicolò wore his best uninterested expression as they pushed Yusuf to his knees and bound him tightly.

“Do what you want with him, I hardly care,” Nicolò said. “He is no longer useful. You already know that he will not break under torture, but _I_ know everything he does.”

“You’re saying you know how to end the siege?” Thierry asked sharply.

“That’s what I told you before, is it not?” Nicolò tilted his head. “I can tell you how to win Damascus. I want to see the Holy Land re-join Christendom as much as any man here.”

“There is something very unnatural about this Saracen,” Thierry said after a moment.

“I know the truth of that as well.” Nicolò smiled wryly. “But you have to swear that I’ll go free. Properly, as I’ve seen promises broken before.”

Thierry almost looked amused by that. “Haven’t we all? And very well, then. Should your information lead to the breaking of the siege, you will be able to go free. Should I learn that you have betrayed me, however…”

Nicolò smirked. “That’s not going to be a problem.”

“Then,” Thierry said, “We have a deal.”

Yusuf cursed as he pulled against his bonds, and Nicolò couldn’t help the glance.

“What are you doing?” Yusuf hissed, the Arabic syllables spitting sharp enough to scratch. “I— _my people_ have done nothing to you, why are you—”

“Do you remember when we first arrived in Damascus?” Nicolò asked, infusing his voice with all the poison he could muster. “When we stood outside that church? Do you remember what I said?”

There was a small flash of _something_ in Yusuf’s eyes—and then he struggled all the harder, biting out curses against not only Nicolò now, but his mother as well.

“It seems that you _do_ have something worth knowing,” Thierry said, his hand finally falling from his sword as he gestured for Nicolò to come closer to the table and the maps spread upon it. “Tell me how to break this city.”

“It’ll be easier than you think.” Nicolò examined the pages, and it only took a moment for him to find what he was looking for. “There,” he said, gesturing toward the desert-lined southern edge of the roughly-drawn city. “There’s a gate here, they call it Bab Al-Saghir. It is hardly defended, and made of mud brick, not stone. If you’ve got trebuchets, they would have it down in hardly any time at all.”

“Nicolò, how could you,” Yusuf hissed angrily, his words as harsh as his expression of betrayal.

Thierry seemed to be considering his options.

“Barely defended, you say?”

“Hardly at all,” Nicolò nodded. “The Damascenes knew you would come this way, because of the orchard. They have focused _all_ of their defence here, leaving barely a handful of soldiers in the south.”

“It will be difficult to convince the King to give up his position here,” Thierry said thoughtfully. “The orchard poses a problem, but we will be able to receive reinforcements from the sea. We will outlast them, the King knows it.”

“You will not need to convince him, as you will not need the full force of this army,” Nicolò said. “Listen to me. That gate will be taken _easily._ You can do it with the soldiers you have, while the bulk of the army remains here.”

For one final push, Nicolò recalled a small titbit of information from his time in the earlier crusader camp, a few sentences spoken by arrogant soldiers who had fallen into the wrong army.

“When Damascus falls,” Nicolò said, keeping his voice low. “Who is it that gains control? King Louis will go back to Paris… but will that leave the King of Germany in charge? Or someone… else?”

Thierry’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”

“Only that it seems to me, the person who gets through the walls first will be the one who claims the prize. Who will that be, Mon Seigneur? You, or the German King?”

Nicolò did not flinch as Thierry stared him down—and a moment later, Thierry turned to the soldier who had brought Nicolò to the tent.

“Get me one of the scouts.”

“Oui, Mon Seigneur.”

“And thanks to you, Genova,” Thierry said. “If the scout confirms what you say, then I shall soon be Governor of Damascus.”

Thierry’s smile turned into something toxic as another voice rang through the air, broken with pain and anger.

“You will regret this, Nicolò di Genova,” Yusuf hissed. “You will regret this until the day you _die.”_

Nicolò merely kept his gaze upon his hands, and he did not say a word.


	7. bolt through the heart

The waiting, as always, was excruciating.

Nicolò felt every second like a blow, his breaths heavy. Thierry was by his table still, fiddling with the hilt of his blade as he muttered over his maps, and every movement had Nicolò worried that Thierry had decided to take a more violent route.

Yusuf, meanwhile, would not stop staring at Nicolò. It made Nicolò’s skin itch, though not out of discomfort. He wanted to go over and cut Yusuf’s bonds, to help the man up, to—

_No._

He was here for a reason. Yusuf was uninjured, he was fine. Yusuf was merely – and rather understandably – upset, and surely did not want Nicolò to go over to him anyway.

Nicolò laced his fingers together to stop himself from fidgeting, and tried not to shift his feet.

It felt like it had been _hours –_ though he knew that it couldn’t have – by the time a scout came into the tent.

Thierry looked up immediately. They all did.

“Well?” the commander snapped.

“There is a small gate to the south,” the man said. “The walls are lower there, as we knew, and it appears far less fortified than the walls we are attacking now. Less towers, less men.”

Nicolò felt an instinctive touch of relief at being right, even though of course he’d already known he would be. He’d seen how easy it was to get past that southern gate himself.

“Then Genova is telling the truth,” Thierry echoed, a touch of excitement to his tone. “We shall attack as soon as we can.”

“But, Mon Seigneur, there is also less water,” the scout said, his tone a little wary. “The river does not reach that side of the city, and—”

“That does not matter,” Thierry said. “If the walls are as you report, we will be through quickly.” He turned to Nicolò, his eyes flashing. “You will come with me. If things do not go the way you say they will…”

There was no need for Thierry to finish his sentence. But then, Nicolò didn’t think there was any need for the dramatics, either. Ah, the French.

“And him?” Nicolò asked, jerking his head toward Yusuf without looking in his direction.

“He will be kept here,” Thierry said. “Under lock and key.” His words were hard, and left no room for argument. So Nicolò didn’t try.

“How long have we got?”

“I shall inform the King of my discovery, and we shall leave as soon as possible,” Thierry said. Then his gaze caught on Nicolò again. “You will need to find some armour.”

Nicolò grimaced, still not thrilled by the prospect of wearing the Fleur-de-lis.

“And if you betray us again, Genova,” Thierry said, low and dangerous. “It will be the _last_ thing you ever do.”

Nicolò could have mentioned that, to be fair – as far as Thierry knew, anyway – Nicolò hadn’t actually betrayed them a first time. But he thought better of it. Instead, he said, “I only thank you for allowing me the chance to prove otherwise.”

Thierry nodded, barked a few orders at the soldiers, and then left with most of them. Nicolò glanced at the one guard still in the room, then looked to Yusuf.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in Arabic.

The single soldier Thierry had left behind flinched, but Nicolò held up a hand and reassured him in a language he would understand.

“Don’t worry. I am only asking that he does not struggle. Telling him he will be killed otherwise.”

The soldier did not relax, but he didn’t try to stop Nicolò as he moved a bit closer to Yusuf, either.

“I wanted to make sure you weren’t doing anything stupid,” Yusuf said, his voice a little hard. “I suppose I was right.”

“Don’t you _dare,”_ Nicolò hissed.

“I think I’ll say what I want,” Yusuf replied. “You didn’t even want to come to the Frankish camp in the first place—”

“I said I wanted to stop the killing,” he snapped back, stepping closer still.

“And so you waltzed in here to speak to D’Alsace? To send him marching toward—”

“I didn’t know it was Thierry, but even if I had it wouldn’t have stopped me—”

“Don’t you realise how dangerous—”

“This,” Nicolò interrupted with a snarl as he unsheathed his sword, “Was _your_ idea!”

He lashed out in a single, smooth arc, severing flesh from bone. Blood spattered along the wall of the tent, and for a moment, there was silence.

Yusuf blinked. “I thought you didn’t want to kill Christians,” he said.

“I said that I didn’t want to kill them _all,”_ Nicolò reminded him, wiping his sword on the fallen soldier’s breeches. “I’m sorry. If we’d had the time to come up with a plan together—”

“No, this is working fine,” Yusuf said. “A little rushed, I admit—”

“That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Oh, don’t be mistaken,” Yusuf grinned. “I’m proud of you. Look at you go, doing things without overthinking them.”

Nicolò didn’t bother trying to stop himself from rolling his eyes—though the smile on his lips was a fond one as he moved to cut Yusuf’s bonds for the second time in a week.

“Something of a habit,” Yusuf whispered, his thoughts clearly echoing Nicolò’s. As he spoke, he pulled his legs around in front of him and rubbed at his reddened wrists. The marks were already fading.

“You’ve saved me just as often,” Nicolò replied, moving back so that he was kneeling in front of Yusuf—and as he met Yusuf’s gaze, he found that once again, he couldn’t look away.

Nor did he want to.

Decades of dreaming, years of searching, days of living in each other’s pockets. It had been lifetimes, it had been hardly any time at all—and it certainly hadn’t been _enough._ Nicolò couldn’t imagine that it ever would be.

There was no decision to make here. He’d known in the orchard, on the wall, in the church. He’d _known,_ and if he had stopped thinking and simply allowed himself to _feel…_

Nicolò sighed, but still he did not look away. “Sorry for killing you.”

“I wasn’t trying as hard as I could have.” Yusuf moved his hand, curling it around Nicolò’s. “ _I’m_ sorry. I should have explained better. I didn’t mean for you to come here to kill all of these men, I just—”

“I know,” Nicolò said. “I suppose I was overthinking it.”

There was a moment of silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable.

Then, “We can still do this,” Yusuf said. “We can still help _stop_ this.”

“You need to get back to the city,” Nicolò agreed. “You need to tell them what’s happening, make sure they get soldiers to the south. That gate won’t hold, we both know it.”

Yusuf nodded. “But neither will the crusaders.”

Despite their words, they still held each other’s gaze, still did not move—until Yusuf slowly lifted his free hand, and brushed it gently along Nicolò’s cheek.

“Nicolò—”

“No,” Nicolò said, finally pulling back. Yusuf did the same, but faster, as if he had been burned—and Nicolò caught his hand again as if by instinct. “Not _now,_ Yusuf,” he corrected. “This is not the time.”

Yusuf nodded at that, his expression clearing. “Then, later,” he said. “When all of this done.”

“We will have all the time in the world,” Nicolò agreed, his own voice turning soft. “But everyone else does not. We will help them, and then…”

“Yes,” Yusuf agreed, squeezing Nicolò’s hand. “I think I like the sound of that.”

With his free hand, Nicolò reached up to take the scarf from around his neck, the one that had once been tied at Yusuf’s waist. It was rank, torn from the arrow Nicolò had taken to the throat, and it smelt putrid—but Yusuf took it nonetheless, understanding without needing to be told.

“I suppose I shall see you later, then,” Nicolò said, feeling reluctant to leave even though he knew that they could not risk discovery. “Stay safe.”

He had to tear himself away, and turned on his heel—

“Nicolò, wait. One more thing.”

The words halted him more effectively than a bolt through the heart could have, and he turned back to see Yusuf leaning down over the body of the dead guard. When he straightened, he held out his sword, hilt toward Nicolò in a gesture that could only mean one thing.

Nicolò hesitated. He knew _why_ Yusuf was doing this, their plan could possibly fail without it, but at the same time… it felt like something more.

“Are you sure?”

“Look after it,” was all Yusuf said in response.

And Nicolò’s fingers curled around the hilt.

The saif, as Nicolò had heard Yusuf refer to his sword, felt light in his hand, nothing like his own longsword—which he handed to Yusuf in return. It was the matter of moments to swap belts and scabbards, and then—

“May your God be with you, Nicolò.”

Nicolò felt the corners of his lips lift up ever so slightly. “And yours with you.”

Yusuf bowed his head, and then they both finally parted—Nicolò heading for the front of the tent, Yusuf the back.

“Oh, and do _not_ get caught again,” Nicolò couldn’t help calling over his shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” Yusuf replied, his laugh clear in his voice. “This time, they only caught me because I wanted them to.”

Nicolò was still trying to wrap his head around exactly what _that_ meant when he finally found Thierry. The commander was in amongst a thick group of men, which grew further still as infantry ran from their resting places to join the swelling column.

The moment he caught sight of Nicolò, Thierry’s expression fell into a frown.

“Where have you been? I ordered you to find some armour and then come to me immediately—”

“I wanted to see the True Cross,” Nicolò said, saying the first excuse that came to mind. Perhaps he should be worried by how easily the lies were starting to dance along his tongue. “I was told about it on my way into the camp, and I thought—”

“Yes, yes,” Thierry said, waving a hand. “Very well. Now, move. We need to hurry, before Sa Majesté launches the next attack.”

“But my armour—”

“There is no time. Get something to wear over what you have, it will have to do. Now _move!”_

One of the men near Thierry pulled Nicolò away and found him a coloured surcoat, decorated with a splash of blood. It was German, not French. Not that it made much of a difference. He pulled it over his Damascene armour, and buckled Yusuf’s sword-belt over the top.

By the time he was done, the ranks had swollen far more than Nicolò was expecting. With a jolt, he realised that Thierry had decided not to follow Nicolò’s earlier advice—he was bringing more soldiers than merely those under his command.

Thierry had his own contingent of French soldiers, yes, but there were also Germans among them, as well as Templars and a few other knights Nicolò couldn’t place.

When he saw Nicolò’s confusion, Thierry smirked. “You were wrong when you said that King Conrad wanted this city,” he said—and Nicolò guessed that must be the name of the German king. “Both he and King Baldwin of Jerusalem support my claim to Damascus. It is the local barons who want it for themselves. But they cannot have it—they already lost Edessa, what is to say that they will not lose Damascus the moment it is left in their hands?”

 _You have to win it, first,_ Nicolò thought, but he didn’t say the words aloud.

“As soon as I break through those walls,” Thierry muttered, “They will no longer be able to deny my claim. Avancez!”

The last word was shouted for everyone to hear, and the column of men began their march.

—~—

The march to the southern side of the city was a gruelling one. The sun beat down upon them every step of the way, and their meagre waterskins were empty far too quickly. The ground wasn’t total desert, but it _was_ dry. The agricultural channels running from the Baradā River did not reach this far, and dust rose with every footfall, creating a cloud that billowed around the marching crusaders.

Nicolò missed Yusuf’s scarf, wishing he had something he could pull up over his face so that he didn’t need to breathe it in. He’d have to get another one, when all of this was over.

Still, at least there was one silver lining—he found himself grateful that the Damascene armour was lighter than that of Europeans, though not by much. He was still sweltering under the heat.

They all were.

Though of course… that _was_ what Nicolò had been hoping for. He just hadn’t expected that he would be forced to march along with them.

But when they arrived, the soldiers’ morale was bolstered—for anyone could see the difference between these defences and the ones on the western wall they had left behind.

Whereas the western side of the city had defensive towers dotted all along the curtain walls, speckled with murder-holes and plenty of positions for archers, the wall on the south was paltry in comparison. The walls were lower, thinner, and without towers. The crenelations might as well have been for show, and the doors themselves… well.

It wouldn’t stand up to much punishment at all.

As Yusuf had said when he and Nicolò had charged through that very gate, an army attempting to lay the city to siege could never remain camped in the desert, so the Damascenes hadn’t wasted resources fortifying it. The only place an attacking army could stay was in the west, near the agricultural land and with a steady supply of water.

But Thierry believed he could end this quickly—as was further evidenced by the hungry expression that danced across his face as he took in the sight.

It wasn’t long before he was shouting orders, getting the men into formation. They were all tired, hot, and dehydrated, and they all stumbled a little getting into line. Nicolò stayed to the side, right by Thierry, as he had been ordered. It also meant that he could hear Thierry’s discussion with his officers as they considered the best way to assault the door.

They had received a message that the crusader camp had been attacked—a few deaths, blamed on unruly villagers from the nearby area of Darayya, and to Nicolò’s equal frustration and relief the news carried no word of Yusuf. Still, it certainly encouraged a swift response. Especially, Thierry said, since the raid had urged King Louis to join them in attacking Bab Al-Saghir, and that would mean any victory would fall under _his_ name, not Thierry’s. All of the officers agreed that an attack needed to happen quickly. Yet, mixed in origins and motivations as they were, cooperation on a detailed plan was not easy to manage.

“Do you have a trebuchet?” Nicolò couldn’t help but ask—partially because he knew the answer already, and hoped it might cause delay.

But, unfortunately, Thierry merely gave him a sideward glance. “No. Why would we need one? The city will fall to us easily, we have God on our side.”

On the one hand, Thierry’s words were somewhat relieving, as the doors really _wouldn’t_ have managed against a siege engine. On the other? Nicolò couldn’t help but think how ridiculous Thierry sounded, saying such things.

Nicolò wondered when he had become so cynical.

Once the decision had been made to attempt a rather straight-forward attack – there didn’t seem to be any archers on the walls, and no archers meant that they could immediately use the battering ram that some poor souls had been forced to push along with them– Thierry rode his horse up to the centre of the line.

He began to make a speech, but Nicolò didn’t feel the need to listen too closely, and simply let the French syllables wash over him as his gaze continued to sweep over the walls, searching for signs of life. They really _did_ look empty, and that was… _worrying._

When the time came to advance, they didn’t _charge_. They marched forward at a sedate pace, spears and archers at the front, cavalry at the back, swords in the middle—and the battering ram rolling right in the centre. It was a hard thing to move, because the wheels would get stuck on the rough terrain, even now that they were pushing it along the road.

The men were possessed with the indescribable spirit of a coming battle, their faces grim but accepting. Some hands were steady, some were shaking—but all the men marched toward the walls, boots hitting the ground with a pounding rhythm, as if every step brought them a little closer to the end of a ticking clock.

But despite the beat of it, despite the way such a tenacious sound can cling in the mind—

Nicolò knew he would never forget the sound of a thousand arrows burying themselves into human flesh, nor the split moment of silence before the air broke into the echo of screams.

The crusaders were about a hundred yards out when it happened, the sky becoming thick with a deadly cloud of projectiles. They came without warning, without chance of avoidance—as the men were packed in such tight lines it was all they could do to raise their shields.

Remembering the feel of the powerful recurve bow he had used while atop the wall, Nicolò realised what the Damascenes were doing. Rather than giving away their presence by waiting _on_ the walls, they were shooting _over_ them, the lower height helping make it possible. It was a tactic that only could have worked if they’d known the crusaders were coming—and at that thought, Nicolò’s mouth curved into a smile.

But the smile couldn’t last long. Thierry was cursing at his side, shouting orders and trying to call his scattering troops back into formation. The battering ram was abandoned as men reached for their shields, and the infantry was starting to flounder, men falling all over the field as the arrows continued to rain down and down and _down—_

Thierry managed to separate his troops down the middle, allowing the cavalry to come to the fore. The horsemen prepared for a charge, the hasty plan clearly for them to sprint straight through the arrows and shoot for the gates. But just as the riders pushed through—

The gates opened, and then the war cries of the Damascenes joined the crusader’s screams.

Thierry looked wild, his gaze snapping from the gates to Nicolò and then back again—

But Nicolò’s eyes were drawn to only one thing.

What looked to be most of the Damascene army were charging on horses from behind the mud-brick walls, their shouts and the pounding of hooves lifting the desert dust, arrows already flying as several riders stood in their stirrups to shoot. At their fore, a scarf covering most of his face, was a man wielding an unmistakable Genoese longsword.

Uncaring of the chaos around him Nicolò grinned with all the viciousness of a wolf, unsheathed Yusuf’s saif—

And raised it high in triumphant response.


	8. different souls

Once, when Nicolò was younger, his grandfather took him to the sea-edge of the city wall. The wall was strong, and Nicolò believed that it always had been—but his grandfather had shown him where the stones were different colours, where the walls had been rebuilt after an attack which had almost wiped their beautiful city off the map.

Nicolò had asked about the fleet—he’d always been told that nothing could stand against the Genoese navy. But the fleet were not home, his grandfather had said. The heathens saw a town vulnerable, and had attacked with all the savageness of a striking snake.

All his life, Nicolò had heard the story. All his life, Nicolò had wondered how glorious Genova might be, if she had not been sacked by heathens only a century before his birth, and had not been forced to start again—her buildings razed, her people murdered.

Whenever he’d seen eastern traders in the harbour, he’d gone out of his way to avoid them and wondered from a distance which men they had robbed to gain the pretty silks they sold from their ships. He’d wondered how the Genoese who bought from them could stand it, wondered how such people could ever regain any form of trust.

Wondered, at how people who were capable of such savagery could ever be allowed to come back.

And when Nicolò had heard the minstrels sing of the Pope’s crusade, of a promise of salvation in return for joining the frantic effort to take back lands stolen from the righteous… he had known what he needed to do.

He had never imagined that the call he was answering was for a crusade to commit the very same atrocities, to do unto the Muslims what had been done unto them. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—but _both_ God and Allah prefer to preach forgiveness. And sometimes, Nicolò wondered if perhaps… they were the same.

Nicolò had lived and died and _learned,_ and while he’d never imagined that he could ever stand on a battlefield and _cheer_ for the arrival of a heathen army, he could not prevent himself from doing so—the Arabic shouts raising his spirits just as surely as they raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

Not, of course, that he thought of the Muslims as heathens any longer—he certainly could never look at Yusuf and call him as such. Not anymore.

In fact, as he rode at the head of the army with Nicolò’s sword held high, Yusuf looked nothing short of an avenging angel.

The Damascene charge was more than half-way across the field—the Christian archers were in panic, some had already started firing.

To Nicolò’s left, Thierry’s eyes were wide, and his expression was wild as he turned from trying to corral his troops to face Nicolò instead.

“Genova! You said that they would not be defending this gate, you said— _what_ is that _sword?”_

“Oh, this?” Nicolò asked, turning the saif he held so that it glinted in the sunlight. “This belongs to a friend. I’m planning on returning it very soon.”

Thierry’s face was red, and not just because of the burning heat. “You _lied,”_ he hissed.

And this time, rather than denying it, there was only one thing Nicolò had left to say.

“You hurt Yusuf.” 

Rage flashed across Thierry’s expression—

Nicolò adjusted his grip on Yusuf’s saif, holding the curved blade straight forward as Thierry spurred his horse—

But then the first wave of Damascene cavalry hit the knights’ front line, and both Nicolò and Thierry were forced to face forward. Nicolò raised his blade just in time to catch the sword that crashed down toward his head—

And then he spun to avoid a horse, slashed out at the legs of a solider who aimed for his throat—but the man who made a slice at his chest, he did not dodge. He merely leaned back slightly, just enough that the tip of the blade sliced through his surcoat and allowed him to pull it all the way off with a single tug, revealing the Damascene armour underneath.

The man’s eyes widened, realising he had attacked an ally—but Nicolò grabbed his shoulder, yanked the man to the side and then slashed his own blade across the throat of the knight who was trying to stab him from behind.

Then, letting go of the surprised man without another glance, Nicolò joined the battle with all haste.

As always, the fight was a mess. Both sides were already covered in the blood and grime of battle, and it was near impossible to tell them apart—surcoats tore, colours muddied, helmets fell. Damascenes fought with straight blades and curved, and even if his veins had not been surging with adrenaline Nicolò would have found it difficult to tell who was friend and who was foe.

To make things worse, arrows still rained down upon them despite the fact that the armies had met, archers hoping they could reach beyond their own lines. It was a game of chance, a mess of luck—no matter how skilled a fighter you were, you could be hit with a bolt from above and die on the ground in moments.

Nicolò, somewhat ironically, was one of the lucky ones—arrows sailed within inches of his face but did not hit him. His blade danced through the flesh of tens of men, far too many and yet not enough. He was careful not to thrust with it—he’d watched Yusuf fight enough by now to know that the curved blade was for slicing. It still felt odd in his hands, too light, like it might fly from his fingers at any moment. But he kept a tight grip, and let decades of practice and instinct guide his hand.

Yet, despite the mess, despite the killing and the blood and the arrows and the screams—every moment, Nicolò spent searching for one face.

It was a face he knew well, a face he had fought to find before. But Yusuf was lost in the sea of battle, swallowed by the crash of opposing armies and the writhing mass of screaming bodies. Nicolò realised with a jolt that he could no longer even tell which direction he was supposed to be moving in.

He knew they’d approached from the south, so he needed to make sure the sun was on his shoulder—

But which shoulder? What time of day had it been? In which direction did the sun rise?

They were all questions that didn’t matter, questions he didn’t have time for as sword and shield crashed toward him in a never-ending torrent, every man he cut down becoming nothing but an obstacle to step around, or a carpet to stand on—only to be replaced by another.

Nicolò was fighting beside yet another Damascene when he finally caught a break—another nameless face, another man fighting for the freedom of his people. They both noticed the knight at the same time, wearing white and adorned with a red cross, the mark that the Templars had only taken up over the course of this crusade. The knight was shouting angry French, swinging his sword left and right from atop his horse, taking out anyone who dared to approach.

Nicolò spared the man beside him barely a glance. “You take his left.”

Then he charged.

The timing was right—the man’s sword was just arcing to the other side of the horse when Nicolò reached him, and he cried out as Nicolò swept upward with his own blade. The knight caught the blow on his shield but only barely, and the action caused his arms to cross. As the Templar’s sword came back the Damascene slashed at the knight’s leg on the other side, Nicolò parried the blow heading toward him with his saif—

And then he stabbed the knight in the thigh with his dagger.

He supposed that was one benefit of Yusuf’s ridiculous blade—it only required the one hand, leaving the other free for a second weapon.

The knight fell from the horse with an easy tug, and Nicolò left him on the ground as he mounted it himself with practiced ease. There was no chance of thanking the Damascene – he was already attacking another – so Nicolò immediately turned his gaze back across the field, searching once more.

The horse gave him a higher vantage point, and let him catch sight of the city walls. But even with that, all he could see were the clashing of swords and bodies, and there was no chance in picking out a single man among _thousands._

However, the attempt was not entirely unfruitful, as while being on a horse made it easier to see… it also made it easier for people to see _you._ And not too far from himself, Nicolò could see Thierry D’Alsace on a horse of his own, slicing a bloody course through the field.

Taking no time to think it through, Nicolò spurred his horse on with a nudge and a shout, and charged across the field. He didn’t think that anyone would try to stop him, as the Damascenes ducked out of his way if they saw him, and thanks to the horse’s red and white caparison every crusader thought him a friend.

But while thinking of the soldiers he didn’t account for the footing—and when the horse stepped wrong on the blood-soaked, corpse-ridden ground, Nicolò went flying.

Thankfully, the horse did not land _on_ him – that was yet another experience he didn’t want to see a repeat of – but Nicolò did go down. And in the crush of bodies, the surge of battle, there was no way he was going to be able to get back up.

Nicolò didn’t curse, but it was a near thing. Feet pounded close to his head, a boot splashed blood into his face. He put one hand on the ground, tried to push himself up—and was promptly kicked back down. Someone stepped on his gut, and Nicolò gasped at the pain and the bile that rose in this throat.

Coughing, he managed to turn to his side—only for someone to step on his leg, then his back, pushing his face into the sand. He didn’t know if he would be able to get back to his feet, didn’t know if he would spend the rest of this battle under the boots of desperate men—

He was coughing, retching, _drowning_ , being pushed further and further into the ground, sand and iron in his mouth, his nose, his eyes. His whole body was sparking with terror, gasping, burning, _desperate—_

Fear.

—~—

He came to with a gasp and a mouthful of blood-wet sand. He coughed, and tried to rise—but the battle was still going. It hadn’t stopped just because another soldier had fallen, and he was _still_ on the ground. He’d clearly been trodden on further, as he could _feel_ bones all over snapping back into place, even as he continued to be stepped on, again and again, face pressing deeper and deeper, coughing—

And as his vision narrowed, as his lungs burned, as he felt himself slipping _again—_

_—~—_

Nicolò woke with yet another gasp that poured sand down his throat, and he wondered if it would ever, _ever_ end.

It was a terror that he couldn’t face, a horror that froze him cold—

And with a snarl that tore at his lungs he _forced_ himself back up, shoved the hand that was still somehow closed around the saif into the ground and strained himself into a _twist—_

But just as he thought it might be better, just as his eyes faced the sky—a choking, jerking body crashed down upon his own.

Nicolò groaned as the wind knocked from him again, not knowing how much more he could take. And to make matters somewhat worse the man was dying, but not _dead,_ and he still had hands on his blade. Quarters too close for the saif, Nicolò used the only other weapon at his disposal, pulling his dagger from his belt and jabbing it into the crusader’s side once, twice, three times—quick successive stabs that had blood spilling slippery all over Nicolò’s hand.

The man choked and died, staring down at Nicolò with wide brown eyes that Nicolò thought himself unlikely to ever forget. He feared he might be stuck staring at them, for the weight of the body combined with the armour was near impossible to shift. But he tried, he pushed against that body hard, using the dagger as something of a lever along with what felt like a last ounce of strength. He managed to shove the dead man to the side and rolled with him, so that he was now on top.

No longer being crushed and now not quite so close to the ground, Nicolò was in slightly less danger of being stepped on, and he had more of a chance of getting himself back upright. He took half a moment to catch his breath, and then he turned himself back to face the sky once again—

But a crusader spotted him move, and rushed forward, blade high. The man was shouting, expression crazed under his helm, and Nicolò shouted right back. He raised the saif he’d only just managed to keep a hold on only just in time—

And the crusader impaled himself upon the blade.

The force of impact and weight of the man twisted Nicolò’s wrist—but Nicolò used the leverage of the falling man to help pull himself upright, shoving the blade even deeper into the now-corpse as he used it as a brace. It was more than an effort. His leg was in pain where it had been stepped on, and in a flash of odd clarity he couldn’t help but wonder if he had managed to break it for the third time in a week. But he was still able to stand, and he finally, _finally_ made it back to his feet.

The battle was _still_ raging around him and he only had a moment. He found himself half frantic—he couldn’t die but he didn’t want to be _killed,_ not again, if only so that he didn’t end up on the ground. Being trapped like that…

Shuddering, Nicolò gripped the hilt of Yusuf’s saif and pulled, ready to keep fighting—

But nothing happened.

The saif was _stuck._

Using both hands Nicolò tugged at it, muttering something that was half a prayer, half something that might have made Yusuf proud. His dagger was buried somewhere in the body of the crusader who had fallen atop of him, and without the saif, he was entirely _weaponless._ There were swords in the hands of the dead but too many were underneath corpses, just as stuck as the saif, and Nicolò didn’t have the time to search—he could see knights running toward him, several of them—

 _Surrounding_ him—

But why, why would they—he was just one soldier in many, he wasn’t _important—_

Then he saw Thierry. The man was down from his horse, his expression fire and ice and streaked with blood. But Thierry wasn’t the immediate problem—that would be the four crusaders converging on Nicolò from all sides, all of them with shields and swords, and none with a scrap of mercy.

And Nicolò still had no weapon.

Panic rose in his throat, a terror he couldn’t contain. He knew he couldn’t die, he _knew_ he’d get through his, but if he fell—if he hit the ground—

Nicolò couldn’t go through that again.

He _couldn’t._

Desperately, _frantically,_ he lurched back to the saif to try and give it one last tug—

“Nicolò!”

Nicolò turned his head to see Yusuf battling forward, and the moment Yusuf saw he had Nicolò’s attention the Genoese longsword went sailing through the air.

Nicolò raised his hand—

The hilt of his sword slammed into his palm—

And then he fell to his knee and swung it over his head, taking out three of the crusaders at once. The fourth man had been a little slower to advance than his comrades, so he survived the initial slash—but he did not survive the blade that thrust straight through his heart.

Nicolò felt a deep satisfaction as his own sword slid free easily, the straight blade good for both slicing and stabbing—unlike Yusuf’s.

Speaking of—Nicolò’s gaze was drawn to Yusuf like a bird finding home, pulling past the crusaders still around him. Yusuf was using the broken end of a spear to fend off attacks, parrying blows of steel with only wood. The sight was—well, it was something _else,_ but no matter what an admirable job he was doing Yusuf wouldn’t be able to hold them for long. So Nicolò called out his name, and threw the sword back—

Yusuf caught it and continued the movement with a swing, just as Nicolò had. It allowed Yusuf to come closer, and with the other man covering his back, Nicolò was finally able to take the time to brace his foot against a particular armoured corpse and _wrench_ at the hilt of the saif.

The force of his pull caused him to spin as the blade pulled free—

And he was stopped by strong hands gripping his upper arms, their foreheads pressing together, breath escaping in a relieved sigh that almost felt closer to instinct than anything else.

Nicolò couldn’t say what made him do it, for it certainly wasn’t the best time. But his veins were burning with adrenaline, with the heat of battle and the fire of finally finding the one person he felt he belonged with—and it was only a matter of shifting forward an inch.

There was no hesitation, no surprise. Yusuf’s lips pressed against his own as if they had always meant to do so, soft and desperate, calm and firm. Nicolò could feel the press of his sword at his back as Yusuf drew him closer, and for a single, blessed moment, it was as if the sounds of the battle melted away.

Then, Yusuf grunted, pulling from the kiss with a gasp—

And in a single movement Nicolò pulled Yusuf behind him and lifted his arm in a sharp jerk, the downward pointing saif slashing clean across the throat of the man who had thought to stab Yusuf from behind.

Nicolò was turning back before the corpse hit the ground—Yusuf was already fighting again, Nicolò’s sword dancing in his double-handed grip. The crusader attacking him stood little chance, but Nicolò joined the fight anyway, and the man died on two blades instead of one.

Their gazes met with a gleam of understanding, a flash of something passing between them. Nicolò pulled the longsword from the crusader’s gut and slipped the saif into Yusuf’s hand as he stepped by—finishing the movement with a thrust into the man who came for them next.

With his own weapon, Nicolò fought with far more ferocity than before—the heavier weight feeling right in his palm, the slightly longer reach exactly what he needed to execute his favourite styles. And this time, he wasn’t fighting alone.

There was nothing like fighting with Yusuf, nothing that could compare. Now that they had more experience together than just having fought each other, now that they had been at each other’s side without pause, they fell into a flow that nothing could withstand. Nicolò had always felt like his sword led the way while he was fighting, and now it was as if he were more aware of what Yusuf’s blade was doing than his own, even without needing to focus. It was as if every sense were perfectly tuned to always know where Yusuf was, to follow every move and every shift. He trusted Yusuf implicitly, never doubted whether he would land his attacks, never feared that he wouldn’t parry a blow that would take Nicolò’s head from his shoulders. They’d become something of a perfect team—two very different souls finding their match in each other, and fighting together as one.

And together, they fought their way through the bloody battle, cutting a path with a sure direction neither had needed to discuss. On such a field it was near impossible to find a single man, Nicolò knew that now—but he also knew that he and Yusuf had time… while Thierry did _not._

However, after a while, it came to seem that the crusaders had the upper hand—King Louis and King Baldwin joined the fight just as Thierry had thought they would, and the Damascene forces became heavily outnumbered. Even in the crush of the battle, Nicolò and Yusuf could feel the effect of that push. But while the crusaders fought for glory and God, the Damascenes were fighting for their _home—_ and one defender was worth more than a thousand invading soldiers.

And it wasn’t long, oh it wasn’t long before a triumphant shout spread across the din of clashing swords, echoed by thousands of voices.

“Reinforcements! There are reinforcements across the plain!”

It would seem that Nur-al-Din had answered the call at last, and with the added numbers—it was clear to see that the crusaders would not stand a single chance.

The crusaders were retreating, falling back—Louis and Baldwin both leaving the field, their soldiers scurrying after them. Nicolò couldn’t help but be sure that after this, they would not be coming back.

Though of course… with crusaders, one could never be sure.

And it was in this mess of madness that Nicolò and Yusuf _finally_ tracked down the one they were looking for, almost stumbling across him as if fate had forgotten it meant them to do so—a minor moment at the end of the battle, hardly a snag in the main event.

Thierry D’Alsace, Comte de Flandres, stood hunched as he held his sword in both hands, threatening the ring of Damascene soldiers who had surrounded him as he refused to join the retreat. Upon seeing Yusuf and Nicolò, the Damascenes let them pass—remembering either one or both from the scenes they had caused, the plans they had made to appear as one entity, to make it easier for Yusuf to convince Mu’in ad-Din to move his troops to the south.

When he saw them, Thierry’s expression darkened under the coating of blood on his face, and he thrust outward with his sword in a harsh jab.

Nicolò took a step closer. “Stop,” he said—choosing to speak Arabic so that his fellow soldiers would understand, and seeing no reason to make things easier for a man who was beaten due to his own insatiable bloodlust.

Indeed, Thierry did not stop—he _snarled,_ and jerked forward, aiming for Nicolò—

But Yusuf jumped in front of him, and batted the sword away with his saif. When Thierry tried to attack again, Yusuf stepped to the side, caught the man’s arm—and then with a deft jerk of his elbow, Yusuf snapped the bone. Thierry’s sword fell to the ground as he screamed, and Nicolò moved to pick it up. It was a rather nice sword, after all.

“You heard him,” Yusuf hissed, shoving Thierry to the ground and holding the tip of his saif under Thierry’s chin, not unlike how Thierry had threatened Nicolò once before. “ _Stop.”_

“You are defeated, Thierry,” Nicolò said, standing right beside his friend, a sword in each hand. “Damascus will not fall.”

The men in the circle let up a cheer, but Thierry’s gaze stayed sharp and focused. 

“You are a traitor to God, Nicolò di Genova,” he hissed, holding his injured arm with the other. “There will be consequences for this—”

“No,” Nicolò easily countered. “I do not think that this is what God would want. If it is… then I believe I shall focus my efforts on helping people, rather than Him alone.”

“Then you have betrayed your _people_ —”

“I have betrayed no one,” Nicolò snapped. “You, on the other hand, went against your allies and destroyed this siege through your own greed.” He smirked as he shifted a little closer to Yusuf, so that their arms lightly touched. “My conscience is clear. Is yours?”

Thierry snarled. “You will rot in _hell—”_

“I don’t think so,” Yusuf growled, the press of his blade against Thierry’s throat cutting the threat to a choke. “You’ve seen us die, yet we’re still here, asshole. And we’ll still be here long after you’re gone.”

Nicolò held Thierry’s pathetic gaze as he agreed. “If God has anything to do with life and death, then I think his choice is clear.” 

“As is ours.” The flash of Yusuf’s teeth was deadly. “We’ll leave you with your life. A gift you helped steal from far too many others.”

“Your life,” Nicolò added, “And the knowledge that you, Thierry D’Alsace, are nothing but a failure.”

Yusuf lowered his saif. “Run away home, chelb. Don’t try to come back.”

Then, leaving Thierry on the ground, Nicolò and Yusuf both turned and walked back toward the city.

Together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thierry of Alsace [was a real person](https://www.academia.edu/7913468/Thierry_of_Alsace); though I admit, I never met him, so any aspersions I may have cast on his character may or may not be fair. However, I am sure that Nicolo and Yusuf would be interested to know that Thierry was almost entirely blamed by his contemporaries for the failure at Damascus. They might also have enjoyed hearing that a few years later, he was involved in another siege... which failed partly because Thierry's attempted claim over the city in question was, once again, disputed.


	9. a kind of tranquillity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I just want to send a big thanks to **Rabentochter** , who looked this over for me before I was happy enough to post it. And thanks to all of you reading as well, I appreciate every one of you. ❤︎

When the news came of the Frankish retreat, the city of Damascus fell into celebration.

Over the course of the battle the Damascenes had fought well, overcoming numbers and force by sheer determination. Losses had been heavy, but nowhere near as heavy as they could have been. And certainly, _certainly_ nothing as heavy as they had been in Jerusalem.

The siege had lasted all of four days. It seemed that the crusaders’ estimation of less than a week had been correct—it just simply hadn’t been the result they’d expected.

Nur-ad-Din, the general who had brought in reinforcements was claiming the victory, and no doubt planned to monopolise upon it—but the Damascenes were merely _joyous._ They mourned their dead, buried the fallen, and celebrated the living.

Nicolò and Yusuf, however, heard none of it.

They’d held each other up as they’d made it back through the city gates, following the tide of tired men, arms around shoulders and waists. Adrenaline waning, they were both beyond exhausted, and without the other to lean on they both likely would have fallen. And as the wounded returned, as the city began to celebrate, they slowly made their way back to the church. They traipsed down the street and then tripped up the stairs, and likely would have collapsed right there in the nave if Father Ibrahim hadn’t intercepted them.

He took one look at their state with terrified, then sympathetic eyes, before calling for help—and they were both given basins to wash in. It would have been far better, of course, to visit the baths, as they were each covered in blood both their own and of others, but neither could face the thought of another trip outside.

As clean as they could be and dressed in old clothes offered from church donations, they fell upon their single bed in a pile of tangled limbs and devastated groans.

And while the city above bustled and sang, Nicolò and Yusuf let the world go dark around them, knowing nothing but the soft press of each other and the sound of their mingled breathing.

—~—

Nicolò woke to a chill.

It shouldn’t have been an unusual thing, given how long he had been sleeping alone—but for the past several days he had not slept without someone else at his side _once,_ and the moment his eyes opened he began to search for his missing warmth.

It didn’t take long to spot him. Yusuf was sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders hunched as he leaned over his knees, hands buried in his hair.

Nicolò moved slowly, trying not to jostle the lumpy mattress as he shifted himself to sit beside Yusuf, placing a hand in the centre of the other man’s back.

“Are you all right?”

Yusuf sighed, tension already melting away under Nicolò’s hand as he lifted his head, his expression soft. “Are you?”

Nicolò’s brow furrowed a little, not expecting the question in response to his own. “As well as I can be,” he said. “It was… a lot to take in. As battles always are.”

“I saw what happened.” Yusuf’s tone darkened. “I’m sorry that I could not get there more quickly—”

“You got there as quickly as anyone could have.” Nicolò shifted on the bed, moving his hand so that his arm curled around Yusuf’s shoulder. And as Yusuf allowed it – leaned _into_ it, even – Nicolò allowed himself to relax. “I suppose it was your turn to do the saving.”

Yusuf huffed—but his arm was sliding its way around Nicolò’s waist, so Nicolò hardly even noticed. With every word, every _breath_ they leaned closer, as if they had been made to do so, fitting together so perfectly that it could only have been what God intended—

And if it wasn’t… Nicolò would probably have to fight God himself. For Yusuf, he’d do it. With his bare hands, even.

Then Yusuf let out a breath, his fingers curling in Nicolò’s tunic. “Do you… do you think that it was worth it?”

Nicolò turned so that they were almost facing each other, knees knocking together. Then, as he spoke, he slid his hand to the back of Yusuf’s neck, while the other curled securely around his hip. “We did some good, Yusuf,” Nicolò said firmly, holding Yusuf’s gaze despite the darkened room. “We _helped.”_

“We did,” Yusuf said—then he leaned forward, and pressed his forehead to Nicolò’s.

“It’s true that the crusaders were falling apart,” Nicolò continued, his eyes slipping closed and his voice softening. “Damascus probably would have pulled through without us. But perhaps not so quickly, and even so…there are people alive right now that might not have been if we weren’t here to help, and that…”

“That makes it worth it.” There was something distant in Yusuf’s tone, something Nicolò wasn’t sure he understood.

“Yusuf?” he asked, confused, and he pulled back slightly so he could see Yusuf’s expression more clearly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Yusuf said, turning away a little—but his grip on Nicolò only tightened further.

“Yusuf—”

“We did some good,” Yusuf echoed, voice going firm. “Perhaps that’s even something we could do again, that we could keep doing. We can’t die, we’re going to be here for a long time—”

“ _Yusuf.”_

Finally, Yusuf paused, and Nicolò was able to get a word in.

“There’s something you’re not saying,” Nicolò said. He knew he wasn’t the most perceptive person in the world, but he and Yusuf had been living in each other’s pockets without any kind of space between them. He could read this man better than he could read his own emotions, and he _knew_ that he was right. “You can tell me, you know.”

Yusuf sighed again at that, and then lifted his head to meet Nicolò’s gaze.

As he did, Nicolò felt his breath leave his chest, felt his whole body go cold at first before blooming with warmth. Because the pure _emotion_ in Yusuf’s dark eyes was more than Nicolò had ever seen before. Yusuf looked like he was overflowing with it, like he was bursting at the seams from the effort of holding something inside—and as Yusuf began to speak, Nicolò’s world came grinding to a halt.

“Helping people _is_ worth it,” Yusuf said, the words spoken slowly despite there being no need—as every single one was spoken in near perfect Genoese, rather than the Arabic they had been using. “But in my eyes, that’s not all that I have gained these past days. And the battle is far from the only reason why I cannot sleep tonight.” Yusuf paused, but Nicolò saw no reason to fill the silence.

He just kept holding Yusuf’s heavy gaze, and waited.

He did not need to wait long.

“We really could keep this up, we could travel the world, lend aid to those who need it, those who can’t get it anywhere else. We probably wouldn’t even need to join more battles like this one, there are enough people suffering in this world that we could make a difference without that. I’ve thought about it, and I think it’s what I want to do. But I only hope that you will want to do it with me, because…” Yusuf paused—but this time, it wasn’t to steady himself. He lifted one of his hands and gently cupped Nicolò’s cheek, holding his gaze with an intensity which made it difficult to breathe. “Because I don’t _want_ to do it without you.”

On the last word, Yusuf leaned forward across the inch that was left between them and pressed his lips to Nicolò’s. It was nothing like their first kiss had been, but everything that a first kiss _should_ be—it held a kind of tranquillity that calmed Nicolò’s mind, even as it sent his heart beating faster than the pounding hooves of the Damascene charge. He felt Yusuf’s hands at his back, pulling him closer just as he had before until Nicolò was almost in Yusuf’s lap. In turn, he clutched Yusuf as if he needed the other man to breathe, yet they kissed until Nicolò’s lungs began to burn.

Even as their lips parted, they didn’t pull away—they stayed as near to each other as possible, mouths brushing over lips and cheeks.

“I told you before that I wasn’t going to leave,” Nicolò whispered, pressing the promise into the middle of another gentle kiss. “And I promise the same now. I’m not leaving. I’m not leaving _you._ Not unless you want me to.”

Yusuf smiled as their foreheads came together, and Nicolò followed suit as he felt Yusuf’s fingers shifting through his hair. “You’ll be stuck with me for a long time, then,” Yusuf replied, words as soft as his touch.

“If you think I’m going to complain about that, then you really don’t know me at all.”

“I think I look forward to getting to know you better. Getting to know every part of you, when we aren’t fighting for our lives.”

Nicolò smiled, arms curling tighter around Yusuf’s waist as his head leaned further down. “I think I like the sound of that.”

As they fell into a comfortable silence, Nicolò’s head began to sink lower. Yusuf continued to hold him, one hand still stroking his hair as the other pressed into his back.

“You should rest,” Yusuf said, his smile clear in his voice as he stroked Nicolò’s hair one more time before letting his hand fall entirely.

Nicolò reluctantly lifted his head. “So should you.”

“No.” Yusuf’s voice was exhausted, but wry. “I said that the battle wasn’t the _only_ reason I couldn’t sleep. Not that it wasn’t a reason at all.”

Nicolò could more than understand that—memories of Jerusalem had plagued his nights for just as long as dreams of Yusuf had blessed them, and he knew that the memories of this siege would soon no doubt join them. But they’d barely managed any sleep for days, what little they’d claimed always broken and interrupted. Yusuf needed his rest, and it pained Nicolò to see him so wrung out.

Even tired as he was, Nicolò noted the way that Yusuf’s gaze flickered to the door now and then, as well as the way that he had left his saif within easy reach.

It was clear that Yusuf was right, he wouldn’t be comfortable enough to sleep. And Nicolò knew from the way he’d awoken that _he_ wouldn’t be comfortable enough unless Yusuf—

Huh.

Maybe, if he _hadn’t_ been so exhausted, Nicolò wouldn’t have had the thought. But in that moment, he knew there was only one way _he_ was getting any sleep, and in his tired mind, there was only the one way to achieve it.

So he took Yusuf’s hand, and gently tugged him a little bit closer once again.

“Come here.”

Nicolò let Yusuf lie down nearest to the wall, and then positioned himself so that he was between Yusuf and the door—between Yusuf and any possible danger.

It took a bit for them to find the best position—earlier, they had simply fallen atop each other, but now they were conscious enough to feel the discomfort of squashed limbs. But soon, Nicolò’s back was to Yusuf’s chest, he was wrapped in Yusuf’s arms, and his breathing slowed in moments. 

“Nicolò—”

“ _Shush,”_ Nicolò whispered, curling his fingers around Yusuf’s forearm and pulling it snuggly around him. “It’s time for sleep.”

There was a breath of a moment of silence, and Nicolò felt his eyes begin to close, his face pressing deeper into the pillow as he allowed the weight of Yusuf’s embrace to relax the tension in his muscles.

“Thank you,” Yusuf whispered, so quiet it was difficult to hear. His breath and beard tickled the back of Nicolò’s neck, but rather than being disquieted by it like he might have once been… Nicolò felt more than comforted.

“Always.”

—~—

Waking wrapped in Yusuf’s arms was uncountably more comfortable than it had been to wake without them. Nicolò was smiling before he even opened his eyes, breathing deeply as his fingers stroked over Yusuf’s forearm.

Yusuf shifted a moment later, no doubt roused by Nicolò’s movement. There was the slightest moment of stillness, just the barely-there unsurety which came with waking—but then they relaxed, letting the comfort they had managed to find in each other wash over them both.

It was a hard thing, moving. Nicolò felt warm and secure, more so than he could remember feeling since… well, since long before his first crusade. But they couldn’t stay in bed forever. Since his childhood, perhaps. The city would be waking around them, and by an unspoken agreement, they both wanted to get moving as soon as they could.

They got ready to leave in near silence, as if they were no longer sure of what to say to each other. Everything had shifted between them—there was nothing left unspoken, nothing left to wonder. They knew now where they were headed, knew now where they stood—

And as with any kind of cosmic shift in the universe, it was hard to realign everything into something understandable.

Their hands almost touched as they reached for the weapons they had left beside the bed, and their gazes locked with a kind of weight Nicolò wasn’t sure how to react to. He’d never felt this way with anyone before, not to this extent, and he didn’t know _how—_

But then Yusuf grinned, his eyes lighting up as he slid his saif into its scabbard. “I can’t believe you almost lost this,” he teased. “I did tell you to look after it.”

“It’s not my fault that its unnatural shape caused it to catch,” Nicolò replied, finding his footing in the familiarity of their playful mocking.

“Unnatural?” Yusuf chortled, causing Nicolò to roll his eyes. “When is anything ever _natural_ about a _sword?”_

And just like that, with a joke and a laugh, jostled pieces fell back into place and everything felt back to normal.

Well, back to _their_ normal, at any rate—and to Nicolò, it was perfect.

They paused on their way out of the church in order to thank Father Ibrahim. He asked when he might see them again, though he still appeared a little wary of Yusuf, so Nicolò simply said that he could not say for sure. It was true enough—despite everything, he still wasn’t sure that he would be able to lie to a priest.

Despite the early hour, the streets were still alive with the aftermath of the battle, both the gruesome and the hopeful. No one noticed two more men making their own way. No one recognised them, no one stopped them—and to be honest, Nicolò was glad for it.

They walked together the same as they always had, save that their hands brushed as their arms swung by their sides. And when Yusuf entwined their fingers so that their hands swung together, Nicolò couldn’t help the small smile.

Due to the battle horses weren’t an option, but they found a man near the eastern gate who was willing to trade a camel for Thierry’s sword. (It really _was_ a nice sword, but Nicolò didn’t exactly want to keep it.) Loading their meagre things didn’t take long, and then Yusuf helped Nicolò up onto the camel before settling in front of him.

Nicolò smiled as he curled his arms around Yusuf’s waist—and the expression only deepened as Yusuf turned back to look at him.

“Where do you want to go?” Yusuf asked.

“I don’t mind,” Nicolò replied. _So long as it’s with you._

The words weren’t said aloud, but he wondered if Yusuf somehow heard them anyway. Yusuf’s hand came up to brush over Nicolò’s cheek, a gentle touch coupled with a fondly patient gaze.

To be honest, though, it was a bit of a loaded question. They hadn’t talked about the two women in their dreams, the two who seemed like they might share the same affliction—the same blessing. Looking for them was certainly something they could do. He and Yusuf had also discussed helping people like they had helped the people of Damascus. It wouldn’t be hard finding someone who needed them. 

But in that moment… all Nicolò wanted to do was spend time with the man that he believed he was starting to fall in love with—if he wasn’t already there.

They had so many years ahead of them. With all that time, they could go anywhere, anywhere at all.

And there, Nicolò supposed, was his answer—and he leaned into Yusuf’s touch with a smile.

“How about everywhere?”

“You know,” Yusuf said, leaning so close that his lips brushed the edge of Nicolò’s jaw. “That sounds perfectly wonderful to me.”

Then they both rode through the gates of Damascus, leaving the victorious city behind. Though of course, they weren’t saying goodbye forever.

Because forever, after all, is a very long time—and with Yusuf by his side, Nicolò finally felt ready to start living it.


End file.
